Forsaken
by Lurking Grue
Summary: Life goes on after the rescue mission in Northrend. While some begin a long journey to discover why a baby ice troll is so desperately sought by so many, others go to Outland in an attempt to find a cure for a mysterious illness. Part Two.
1. Chapter 1: Part One: My Brother's Keeper

_**Forsaken - Part One - My Brother's Keeper**_

Yvette Brack was a monster. She knew it already, had known the moment she'd stood in front the Lich King and felt her mind crumple readily to his will. With her own hand she'd killed her brother, remorseless and unfeeling, and then just as quickly as she'd been thrown into the war machine, she found herself spat back out again.

Returned to her own will. A second time. Twice now, she'd been a shambling servant of the Lich King. There was great emptiness inside of her, something that could no longer hope to be filled in. That she kept on at all baffled even her at times, when her own people snarled at her and whispered cruelties that she couldn't... no, she _could_ imagine them, now. She knew they could never enact such things. But _she_ could.

She had great power, now. _Terrible _power. It welled up from the blackest corners of the nether, seeping easily through the tattered, pathetic remnant of her soul, and she wielded it with cruel efficiency. Antoine had found that out first hand as she'd buried her sword into his flesh.

Sometimes, she imagined she would run into him, also a Death Knight, able to understand what it was to be a conscious monstrosity. To be an embodiment of what everyone loathed. She was more hated than the Dark Lady's Majordomo, and that was saying a great deal.

At the same time, she was glad he'd finally reached some sort of peace. He'd always been sad that he'd never have a family, that Yvette wouldn't. Antoine had been a far too gentle a person for war.

Nobody wanted to believe that she was no longer under Scourge control, not even other Forsaken. What she represented made any sane person disgusted. Even children cowered in her wake. Innocents were the finest judges of character. They _ought_ to be afraid. She was a murderer. A _monster_.

She stooped in front the marker of her brothers grave and laid a rose on it. Yvette was certain she ought to feel some sort of shame or remorse that the delicate flower had withered in her grasp, but she felt nothing. There was no body beneath the earth here. She did not care to imagine what had been done with it.

Twice-damned, she was, and gunning for a third shot. She'd head to Northrend soon, to fulfill her oath and destroy the Lich King for what he'd done to her. _Twice_.

What she _could_ feel was anger. Deep, gnawing, furious anger that made the edges of her vision haze red. These were the only things she could muster now. Rage. Hatred. The desire to inflict pain. She could focus it, now. It had been honed to a razor sharp edge, and she continued to whet it against the Scourge.

"I will avenge us both or die trying," she told her brother, running the sharp, bony points of her fingers against Antoine's headstone, "Perhaps when we meet again, beyond, you will forgive me."

* * *

It was just Edgar's luck that he'd been stuck on Death Knight duty. Not that there were any rosy assignments in Northrend, of course, but that he got to keep tabs on the creepy bitch was hardly near the top of the list of things he'd hoped he'd be selected for. He was a loyal soldier, had been since he'd been freed from the Scourge, and he'd do his duty as he'd been ordered too.

That she seemed disinclined to even idly chat was a blessing and a curse. He couldn't imagine anything a Death Knight wanted to chat about was pleasant, but the grim silence was oppressive none the less.

They sat across from each other on the zeppelin, the rest of the passengers sitting well away from her. Her posture reminded him a bit of a broken doll, the exposed joints in her elbows propped on her armored thighs, fingers dangling between, twitching. Her shoulders were hunched, as was her spine, and her gaze had been fixed firmly on the floorboards the entire time.

Though most Forsaken had eyes that emitted a soft amber glow, hers glowed a bright blue. It filled the passenger hold with an eerie, unsettling light. Her presence, in fact, had seen the entire trip in silence. There had been some muttering at first, whispered snatches of conversation, but her presence seemed to suck the life out of the very air.

Maybe they were all just imagining it, but Edgar had a feeling it wasn't terribly far from the truth. Any spot she'd stood on long enough, the grass withered, the ground cracked. They were Forsaken, but she was _truly_ damned.

They were to help the effort at Vengeance Landing. Sylvanas wanted a base of operations secured in Northrend, and she was well on her way to accomplishing the task. How much it had cost her to pay off the goblins for this particular trip... Edgar was willing to be bet he'd never see that amount of gold in his lifetime.

Yvette barely moved, shifting her head up slightly and making Edgar tense. Their eyes met through her limp hair and Edgar felt like all the saliva in his mouth dried up... what was left of it, anyway.

"We're under attack," she said quietly.

"What-"

Edgar was thrown back against the wall as the zeppelin listed violently. He braced himself for Yvette to land on him, noting how everyone else had been thrown against the wall in a jumble of curses and limbs, but she caught herself on her hands and knees deftly, just to his right. She'd anticipated the attack, after all. Somehow.

"Did you set us up?" he demanded of her through the shouting of the crew and passengers. The zeppelin shuddered and the shrieking of gargoyles reached his ears. Whatever passed for blood froze in his veins at the sound.

"No," Yvette said. Edgar didn't like to exaggerate, but her complete calm as the zeppelin lurched in the air was _creepy_. She'd hardly even moved, either, while he'd slipped around and struggled like a fish out of water.

"Scourge!" a goblin voice shrieked above deck.

"_Shit_," Edgar said, struggling for his sword. Yvette put a hand on his wrist, her grip stronger than he'd thought possible, and freezing to boot, "What are you-!"

"Don't," she said, digging her fingers into the wooden hull, "Not yet."

Yvette was watching the others struggle for their own weapons, and when the zeppelin jolted again, she released Edgar's wrist and grasped his shoulder before releasing him. The Death Knight dug both hands in, looking down to supervise jamming her sharpened toe bones into the wood as well.

"Hang on," she suggested. Edgar flicked a look at the other passengers. One of them managed to lurch upright, fighting against gravity as it flipped them around madly, and grabbed for the door that led to the deck. Despite the wild movements the zeppelin was making, he didn't at all understand why Yvette was acting as though they were going down.

There were heavily armed, well trained guards on the zeppelin, and the goblins were resourceful creatures even at their worst. Why would she assume they'd need to hang on for dear life? And why was it she was advising only him? They weren't the only passengers aboard!

His thoughts were cut short when it felt like a rug had been pulled out from under him, and he scratched frantically for purchase on the hard walls. Something had punctured the balloon. They were going down, but for the moment, he was going _up_.

The icy grip of the Death Knight jolted him as it closed around an arm again, and Yvette yanked him forcefully back towards her. His head bounced against the hull with a solid thud, and everything went black.

* * *

When Edgar woke again, it was with a startled gasp, and he sat up, flailing his arms a little. The cold he'd felt on his arm seemed to have spread to his entire body. His clothes were wet. His sword was missing. Hells, his _shoes_ were missing.

And a short distance away sat Yvette, almost in the exact same position as she had been on the zeppelin. This time, however, the sword she carried with her was out, and while one arm still dangled off her thigh, her other hand was draped on the crossbar of her weapon. She'd shoved it point first into the snow, ice crystals forming along the blade.

She looked at him, silent, perhaps waiting for him to speak first.

"What happened? Where are we?" Edgar muttered, checking himself over. He touched his head gingerly, wincing. Had she meant to knock him out?

"Northrend," Yvette said. He felt as though her eyes were peeling him apart layer by layer, searching for any meaty bits that might still be good. It was an uncomfortable feeling and he cleared his throat, nervous.

"What happened?" he repeated, trying to wring out his clothes. It was the worst where the armor pressed the cloth in tighter – he couldn't freeze to death, but he could still _feel_ things. He noticed then that she hadn't even attempted to dry off. Her hair had frozen into spiky chunks, and even her armor seemed to have a thin sheet of ice covering it.

"We were attacked by the Scourge."

"Damn it, Death Knight, I _know_ all of that," Edgar said, tone hot. He regretted it instantly and looked away, still able to feel her eyes on him. It was the only expressive thing she had left, really – her 'face' was little more than a skull with rags of skin clinging to it, devoid of a nose to wrinkle or lips to purse. In a way, it was as though she were constantly _grinning_, and that did nothing to set him at ease.

"They were looking for something," she said, finally moving her eyes off of him and down at the snow covered ground, "Me, I think. I do not think the others survived."

"Why would they be looking for you?" Edgar demanded, "And how did you know they were coming?"

"I could hear them," she said. He was beginning to note, with growing frustration, that she was only answering one question at a time.

"How could you? I thought you weren't part of the Scourge anymore," he frowned, standing up and brushing off ice and snow. Some part of his brain insisted he was too cold, and he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. Edgar still listened to these desperate little directions from his brain. Some Forsaken hated to be reminded of their humanity, but others, like himself, didn't mind it.

"You could hear them, too, Lieutenant Jerrik, if you listened," Yvette replied, "The same magic that made you, that made _me_, has made _them_."

"Even if I could, why would I _want_-"

"You don't," Yvette interrupted, "That is why you did not hear."

Edgar didn't find her answers the least bit reassuring.

"Why was I spared?" he asked, looking around. They were a ways inland but still in plain view of the ocean. There was no sign of the wreckage.

"I spared you," Yvette said.

"Why? Need a snack for later?" Edgar asked with a slight sneer. He felt cowardly for lashing out at her, but really, she wasn't doing anything to allay his nerves.

"You can tell them that I was not responsible for the attack. Not involved," she said, looking up at him again.

"So, what, I'm your alibi?"

"Yes," Yvette said. She drummed her fingers idly on her sword, the dull clinking sound all but swallowed up by the featureless expanse surrounding them.

"We shouldn't be out in the open like this," Edgar said after another painfully long silence, "Especially if they're looking for you."

She sat up slowly, the thin film of ice that had hardened on her cracking and crumbling off. Yvette looked up at the grey clouds crowding the blue sky a moment before standing. Despite the obvious heft of her blade, she held the long hilt with one hand as though it weighed nothing.

Edgar tried to shake off the feeling of cold and looked around, turning in a half circle somewhat uselessly. He really hadn't the first clue where they were, or what direction they ought to head in. The Undercity would likely assume them dead. Why waste the resources on a search party? He was kidding himself if he thought he was irreplaceable, and the Dark Lady herself had been eager to get Yvette out of the city. Sylvanas was more sympathetic than most, at least in Yvette's case, but the Death Knight was an unsettling reminder to everyone of the Lich King's vast power. Their was something primal and raw about her, something untamed and barely controlled.

"Where should we go?" Edgar said. He shrugged his shoulders and looked to Yvette, wishing silently that he didn't have too. It was sinking in slowly that he was stuck with a Death Knight for the foreseeable future... however long that was.

Yvette didn't answer in words, and instead pointed off into the distance. At the edge of the rocky, snow covered plain there was a line of snow laden trees. It looked no more welcoming than any other place, but it was a direction.

"What's over there?" he asked her, hesitant even as she began to trudge in the direction she'd pointed. At least she didn't expect him to lead the way.

"Trees," Yvette said.

Edgar blinked and followed, tempted to smirk. Part of him insisted that she wasn't joking, however. Whatever or whoever Yvette had been, she was something _else _entirely now. She'd been stripped of her life twice and there wasn't much left over. Could her sense of humor have survived both ordeals?

* * *

Yvette wasn't terribly concerned with what Edgar thought of her or the situation. The truth of the matter was quite clear. They were stranded on Northrend, just the two of them, and they would have to find some way to amend the situation.

Lieutenant Edgar Jerrik had likely been given the assignment as her babysitter because of his subdued manner. He seemed disinclined to aggression unless the situation called for it, and he had a healthy fear of her. That was good. He'd do what she said if they got into anymore unpleasant situations.

He was slightly more well preserved than most Forsaken, though the heavy hood he wore told her that his hair hadn't fared well. Part of him still clung to his human instincts, something she herself absently wished she still had. There was nothing left of her that was human anymore. Nothing to make her shiver, or grimace, or grumble about the cold.

The whisper of the Scourge was strong here. It had been a low murmur on Azeroth at best, much of it background noise stirred up by the Forsaken. Here, though, the Scourge seemed to sing loudly, the terrifying gestalt echoing off the mountains.

It repulsed her, just as the idea of even hearing it repulsed Edgar. On the basest of levels the idea of it made what little skin she had left want to slough off. She wanted to claw at the sides of her face and shriek and snarl, anything to get rid of the seductive, hissing whisper. Such things would do no good, however, and she pushed past the encroaching madness. She had a task to accomplish.

As they trudged, occasionally Edgar would ask her something inane. He was afraid and wanted to make her seem more personable, but she remained silent to confound his efforts. He ought to be afraid. They were in very real danger here and some foolish (and false) sense of security would do him no favors.

It made him angry that she wouldn't talk to him. Angry, and more afraid, it seemed, because he quickened his pace slightly, nearly walking right next to her, and he kept looking up.

He began to check himself over in more detail when it was clear she wouldn't converse with him. No shoes, much of his armor missing, no weapon... he was at the mercy of this place. At_ her _mercy.

A metallic glint caught her eye and she actually turned her head as he fidgeted with a gold ring. It was a simple band, nothing fancy, but it was in very good condition, untarnished despite its perch on a dead man. He looked relieved to see it. Somehow, in the struggle before, it had stayed on while his boots had not.

Yvette felt a tiny gnawing of curiosity. Was it some token from his previous life, or was there some Forsaken woman as deluded as he was? She realized she was staring when he met her gaze, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. It was a silly gesture, in her opinion – as if he produced enough saliva to clog his throat anymore.

She waited as he waited for her to ask about it, and when it was obvious she wasn't going to make the first move, Edgar sighed. Yvette found it passingly amusing that he was so desperate for conversation he'd continue to put up with what must have seemed to be infuriatingly poor social skills.

"I'm married," he said, "Her name is Anne. She's in the Royal Deathguard."

"She outranks you," Yvette observed, the barest thread of amusement in her hollow voice.

"She does," Edgar said fondly. His expression was conflicted. He obviously had great affection for the woman, but at the same time, he was questioning if he'd ever see her again.

Yvette lapsed into silence. Edgar wanted to talk about her, how they met, why they were married even in undeath, but she wasn't interested anymore. Things like that would only stir her to bitter anger, a stark reminder of her own profound losses. It also served to remind her that she no longer felt sorrow – only rage and the need to cause suffering. Edgar would be able to clear her name when they returned to the fold, and so she needed him to be on her side. Tearing him to bits wouldn't do her any good.

"Miss Brack, I would appreciate it if you'd at least communicate to me what we're doing," Edgar sighed, "The obvious aside, I mean. I _know_ we're walking towards trees."

A slight shrug caused an irritable sigh to crawl from Edgar's throat. His nerves were already frayed, and she was only pushing him closer and closer to some sort of outburst. It warred with his fear of her, fear of how she might respond to being chastised, and she hoped it came to a head soon. Once they'd gotten past that, perhaps he would be a bit more useful.

"Do you hear any Scourge?" he asked her nervously.

"Yes."

Instead of replying he ducked slightly, looking around frantically and tossing looks to her when he could.

"Where!?"

"That way," Yvette said. She pointed off towards the mountains.

"Damn it," Edgar muttered, adding in a louder voice, "Any near us?"

"No," Yvette said.

"Do you think you're funny?" he asked her. She hadn't slowed her relentless pace towards the trees, and he occasionally had to rush forward a few steps to keep up.

"No."

"Quit with the clever shit, then," Edgar said uneasily, "This is bad enough without smart ass remarks from a mon-"

He stopped himself a half a second before Yvette was suddenly in front of him, her face uncomfortably close to his. Everything seemed to stop then. She could taste his fear as it swelled off of him in waves. Even though her head only came up to his shoulder, it was as though she was towering over him. How easy it would be, to dismember him, to gnaw on his rotten flesh. She could feel the snap of his bones in her teeth, feel his sludgy Forsaken blood dribbling down her chin. It would be so easy, it had already happened in her mind.

Yvette tilted her head slightly, shifting some of her scraggly hair out of her face with one finger. It was a vestigial gesture, a habit that had survived despite her dehumanizing ordeals. Once, many lifetimes ago, she had glorious hair that often fell into her eyes.

_Push your hair away, Yvette. Let me see your pretty eyes!_

"Please don't kill me," Edgar squeaked. It was very unbecoming, his groveling, "I didn't mean..."

"You did," Yvette told him. If he was still human, she mused idly, he would have soiled himself by now. He hadn't moved an inch, even though she hadn't so much as raised her voice, let alone her weapon. Everything inside of her ached to slaughter him. His marriage was nothing but a pathetic sham, after all, and he was only a few steps up from being a rankless grunt in the grand scheme of things.

_But I need him_, she reasoned with herself, tilting her head the other way. Yvette took one step back from him, noting how his posture stiffened even more.

"Don't speak again," Yvette said. Edgar nodded frantically as she turned without another word and continued towards the trees.

He was right, of course. She _was_ a monster.

That didn't mean she liked to hear about it.

* * *

The silence continued, and the sun was sinking low by the time they reached the treeline. Edgar had been on edge the entire time, certain that Yvette would turn on him at any moment and crush him like a flea. She hadn't yet, anyway, and he was starting to hope that perhaps she'd let his insult slide entirely.

It wasn't as though he'd been gunning to start an argument with her. He still felt like her behavior wasn't quite appropriate given their dire situation. He'd just... well. He'd been stupid. Anne would have slapped him in the back of the head. Anne. He had to seen Anne again. They'd barely had time for goodbyes before he'd been shipped off.

Lost in thought, he nearly walked into Yvette when she abruptly stopped, glad they had a great deal of room to maneuver. He merely sidestepped her, as though he was trying to get a look at... whatever she was doing. Staring off into the distance, it seemed.

"What is it?" he asked, unable to help himself. In the dwindling light, her eyes cast an eerie blue glow on the snow and the trees.

Yvette made a hissing noise, and it took Edgar a moment to realize that it was the sound of lipless shushing. He shivered in spite of himself.

At first he couldn't hear anything. Trees rustling in the wind. The distant howl of wind through narrow crevices.

Crying.

Edgar looked at Yvette in alarm and strained to listen harder, pulling his hood back. He still had hair, but the rather prominent bald spot that dominated the top of his head was embarrassing, so he kept it covered up. Even without his hood, though, he couldn't focus on the sound. In life, he'd been a bit embarrassed by how bushy and hairy he'd been. In death, he hid the damned bald spot to avoid hearing jokes about it.

When Yvette started to sniff through the ragged holes that marked where a nose once protruded, he felt his skin crawl.

He opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it, flipping his hood back up and tucking his bushy sideburns back in just to pass time. Eventually, Yvette headed off to the right, following the scent of... something young. Probably a baby, though it could have been a small child. Who would leave such a defenseless thing out in the freezing cold??

The crying grew louder the closer they drew, and they found a clearing that seemed to emerge abruptly in the middle of the sparse forest. There were fresh tracks, and Yvette seemed more interested in the clearing itself than the squirming baby. It was a little girl, an ice troll, and she hadn't even been left in a blanket. She'd been placed on a crude stone altar, and as he rushed over to it, he saw that someone had written crudely on her pale blue skin in blood.

Edgar's brow creased and he took off his hood again, tearing it from where it attached to his tunic. Hurriedly, he picked the baby up and wrapped her, pulling her close to his chest even though he felt it was a useless gesture. It wasn't as though he had much body heat to offer her.

She continued to scream unhappily, and he turned to look at the rest of the clearing, cradling the infant and shushing her absently. The trees were decorated with grisly, foreboding fetishes, carvings and skulls. This was obviously a place of some importance.

Yvette stood from inspecting some tracks and turned to look at Edgar. What was left of her brows knit together and she pointed to the altar.

"Put that back," she said, "It's not yours."

"Of course she's not," Edgar protested, glancing down at the baby. She was between screams, sucking in air to belt out another. How long had she been at it? "We can't just leave her out here."

"You have no idea what you're disrupting," Yvette said.

"Do you know?" Edgar asked.

"No."

"I'm not leaving a baby in the cold," he insisted. He was a bit disturbed that Yvette was even considering it.

"It's an ice troll. It will be fine," Yvette said, pointing towards the altar again.

"No baby is 'fine' in Northrend as far as I'm concerned," Edgar said.

"How will you feed it? We have a long way to go. Leave it on the altar. If it's parents return and find their baby missing, I do not imagine we will enjoy the results," Yvette said.

Edgar grimaced and looked down at the baby. She looked up at him miserably, gumming her fingers, and he couldn't help but think she was pleading with him somehow. Carefully, he brushed a bony hand against her scalp, pushing off what seemed to be dried blood. By the Dark Lady, she was a _newborn_ baby.

She grabbed one of the skeletal digits and tried to put it in her mouth.

"No, no," Edgar cooed gently, "You don't want to eat that."

The little troll renewed her wailing.

"We can't leave her," Edgar insisted, scowling at Yvette, "Do you honestly think even a _troll_ would leave a newborn baby out in the wilderness if they wanted it?"

"Trolls are very strange creatures. It's possible," Yvette said. She seemed disinclined to change her opinion, "You can't feed it or look after it. You're only drawing out its death. And that noise she is making will make traveling much more dangerous."

"She's scared," Edgar protested.

"Hungry and scared," Yvette agreed, stepping closer, threatening. She was obviously losing patience. Edgar almost didn't have time to react when the Death Knight grabbed the shrieking infant from his arms.

"No-!"

"We don't have time for this foolishness," Yvette hissed, glancing down at the suddenly silent troll.

The baby was staring at Yvette, her ice blue eyes wide, as though... fixated, or fascinated, or something. Perhaps it was fear. Yvette stared back, tilting her head, the two studying each other in a grimly comical fashion.

Edgar thought it looked like Yvette was considering the best way to eat the baby whole. The infant was dangling mid air, Yvette gripping the remnants of Edgar's hood to avoid actually touching the child. Her other hand clutched her runeblade. Seeing such a thing would be any parent's worst nightmare. Except, perhaps, this little one's parents.

Yvette jammed her sword into the earth and took the child with both hands, being overly cautious, he noted, not to touch the baby's skin. She began to examine the troll closely, turning her over in a way that made Edgar cringe. Something about the Death Knight kept the child hushed, however, when any other baby would likely scream in protest to the treatment.

"Hold her feet still," Yvette said abruptly, "Look at her left ankle."

Finding the request bizarre, Edgar hesitated a moment before complying, crouching down and gently taking hold of the tiny ankle. He blinked and leaned a bit closer before looking up at Yvette.

"She's got a tattoo," he said.

"Tattoo or birthmark?" Yvette promptly, flinching her head back as the baby reached out to touch her face.

Edgar ran a finger over the very detailed, dark blue image that seemed to be a crude skull fetish. If it was a tattoo... well... the baby was so young, there was no way it wouldn't be at least bleeding or irritated. Trolls didn't heal _that_ fast. But birthmarks didn't look like that. Maybe in ridiculous legends they did.

"It's too well formed to be a birthmark," Edgar insisted.

"What is it?"

"Some sort of skull," Edgar frowned.

"I- we need to leave," Yvette shoved the baby at him roughly, pulling her sword out of the earth with both hands.

"Yvette, what-"

He couldn't help but yelp when she gripped his upper arm to hurry him along, not prepared for the searing cold. She made the chilly surroundings seem like high noon in Tanaris, but it was certainly enough to get him moving.

One moment she'd been eager to leave the baby to freeze to death, and now, suddenly, they needed to rush off? He couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary.

Edgar looked over his shoulder just in time to see hands. Troll hands coming out of the frozen earth. He stumbled and only just managed to catch himself, squeezing the baby close to him and startling her into crying again.

"What the _f-_"

"Keep going," Yvette told him, turning around, "I'll find you after."

"Yvette!"

He stopped when she did, feeling a bit like he was in one of those dreams where no matter how fast he ran, he wouldn't get anywhere. Edgar didn't have the slightest idea of where he was, or where a safe place to go would be, or-

Her cold blue eyes fixated on him and Edgar swallowed hard. There was guttural snarling in Zandalari not far from where they stood.

"Go," she hissed. He was disturbed to note that the bark of the trees she was standing near began to blacken and curl. Edgar backed away a few steps, turned, and ran as fast and as far as he could manage.

The baby eventually grew tired of wailing by the time night had fallen. It became even colder then, the air harsh on even his resilient lungs, and he staggered to a stop in the hollow of a large tree. As soon as he stopped moving he realized how completely exhausted he was. Edgar sat down heavily and sighed down at the troll baby. She looked back at him, miserable.

"Sorry," he apologized to her quietly. Not that she understood, but he couldn't just say _nothing_. She was hungry, and shivering, and he couldn't do anything to amend either situation. His own joints felt stiff from the cold, and he'd been hungry even before the zeppelin accident.

It felt like it had happened years ago, as if he'd been trudging through the deep snow of Northrend for all his life. What had he been thinking, really, trying to save some abandoned troll baby? Anne would sigh and shake her head.

_Edgar, you have more heart than sense_, she'd say wearily. But then she'd smile at him. Even though death had stolen much of her beauty, there was enough left to take his breath away. How she must've looked when she was alive!

The baby eventually drowsed, falling into a fitful sleep. Though he fought valiantly to stay awake, straining to listen for troll voices or the ominous crunch of Yvette's boots on the snow, Edgar nodded off as well.

* * *

Yvette didn't need sleep. When she was still Forsaken, still at least partly human, she'd slept. She had even dream, the subject usually scraps of her old life. Yvette had always liked dreaming. It wasn't always happy things, but it was something human. Something_ alive_.

But she no longer slept.

The ghoulish trolls that had risen from the ground had been ancient, decrepit, and had taken only moments to hack down. They'd been more dust and bones than meat, quite a disappointment in light of the hunger gnawing at her. She'd attend to that soon, before she returned to Edgar and the infant troll.

She'd been annoyed by his overwrought sentimentality, taking the screaming child from the altar and cradling like it was his own. As if they had time to indulge the remnants of his paternal instincts!

Then she'd felt the odd tingling of power after noting the footprints, the fetishes and wards all facing _into_ the clearing. It was meant to keep something _in_, all of the wards and bones. She, more than anyone, understood binding magic. The amount of power it had taken to keep her already shredded soul trapped inside her equally battered and mangled body had been beyond comprehension.

Something just as powerful had been at work in that clearing, but far more ancient and malignant than the Lich King. And it wasn't even _awake_. It was barely aware, perhaps operating on some sort of dire instinct. The troll remains had obviously been meant to kill herself and Edgar for attempting to make off with the baby, an idle attempt from something vast and unimaginable, something hardly even aware of its own actions.

The baby troll was some sort of omen, some sort of _harbinger_. Yvette imagined her parents, terrified of bringing some sort of death omen into their tribe while the Scourge pressed in on them, had quickly disposed of her.

Anything that could rattle _her_ soul, however, had the potential to be quite useful. The Lich King would pay for what he'd done to her and her brother, and she would use any means necessary.

Some_thing_ wanted the baby to live, and she had no qualms making a pact with whatever that thing was. What did she have to lose?

Edgar would continue to prove himself useful, in any event. He could play nursemaid for the infant as well as clear her name. If leaving Northrend was really in her best interest, however, was now unclear. It couldn't have been entirely an accident, them finding the child. If there was more in store, they would discover it as they made their way back to Vengeance Landing.

The hapless Forsaken had nearly called her a monster. As she idly snapped the neck of a deer she'd snared in ice, having found herself something to sate her hunger on, Yvette wondered if she'd been too quick to silence him.

She didn't find Edgar and the infant until dawn, mildly annoyed at how easy his trail was to follow. It looked as though he plowed through the woods in a blind panic and then slumped in a hollowed out tree trunk without even bothering to cover his tracks. Yvette imagined her assessment wasn't even the slightest bit far from the truth.

Crouching in the jagged entrance to their hidey-hole, Yvette watched them sleep. Edgar had slumped down, his chin touching his chest, and the baby was curled up close to his head, one stubby hand resting on his face.

Yvette was certain she ought to have felt something, watching a baby troll sleep peacefully on a reanimated corpse, but ever since the clearing she'd felt nothing but impatience. She wanted to keep moving. If they continued on to the fjord, they might find some domesticated animals. They would have too soon – trolls were resilient creatures, but a newborn baby, even one that may have some tenuous connection to the Old Gods, needed sustenance.

Something made Edgar stir and he groaned quietly, putting a hand to his face. One eye opened and he started, the abrupt movement causing the baby to fuss grumpily.

He rubbed her back with one hand and eyed Yvette warily, idly brushing ice out of his hair.

"I guess things went in your favor," he said quietly. His eyes flicked over her nervously, noting the dark, rusty stains on her pallid flesh and bones. Edgar especially noticed the stains on her mouth and how they seemed to trail down her chin, disappearing beneath her breastplate.

"Well enough," Yvette nodded, content to let him think she'd fought off some terrible foe and then eaten it. The baby started to warm up to squalling and Edgar did his best to avert disaster by shushing the baby, bouncing it, coddling it... but none of that helped abate her hunger, and he looked somewhat helplessly at Yvette.

"She's starving," he said, clearly not game to address the source of the gore she was covered in.

"We'll be in vrykul territory soon," Yvette said, glancing over her shoulder, "Perhaps taunka, though I do not think they will help us."

"Why would the vrykul be more willing than the taunka?" he frowned, thinking hard to the intelligence he'd read, "I thought the taunka were our allies-"

"I am clearly no longer Forsaken," Yvette cut him off, "It will be far easier to deceive the vrykul into thinking we are Scourge than to convince superstitious cows that I am of the Horde. Yes?"

Edgar looked uneasy and glanced down at the troll instead of answering, brushing snow off of her even as she wailed. He didn't like the idea of pretending to be Scourge, and Yvette didn't have much confidence in him pulling it off, but it was a better chance than him being able to talk a taunka chieftain that she wasn't Scourge.

"We could at least try the taunka," he said, worry plain on his face, "They might be more understanding of..."

"Of two shambling corpses with a baby troll?" Yvette said pointedly. Edgar grimaced, and to her amusement, she thought she saw a hint of insult on his face. He considered himself something more than just an animated shell. How _quaint_.

"No one in this stump is a well-loved creature," Yvette reminded him coolly, "We will deal with whatever we come too, but whatever happens, we must get it some food today, yes?"

"_Her_," Edgar corrected mutinously.

"Its gender is of little consequence," Yvette said, standing and stepping away from the tree so Edgar could get out.

He did so carefully, trying not to jar the baby much, even though she'd hardly notice in the midst of her screaming. If anything, a hunting party would find_ them_ long before they got close enough to even _think_ of making off with a goat.

"You shouldn't get so attached," she warned, "When we return to the Horde, I do not imagine you will be allowed to keep her. What sort of future would two Forsaken soldiers offer a troll?"

Edgar looked rather wounded by the question and said nothing. Yvette imagined he'd already thought of a name and how he would convince his wife to take the infant in. Had she cared enough to be more than irritated, she would have sighed at his desperation. Of all the Forsaken to have in her company, she had one of the few who still had a majority of their soul intact. Many embraced their affliction, however grudgingly, but Edgar seemed stubbornly stuck in the mindset that he was still mostly human. By the end of their journey, however long it took, she expected he'd have that stripped from him. It would be for the best.

After a long silence, Yvette turned and led them further along into the wilderness.

* * *

Edgar didn't remember much from his life before the plague. He'd looked into it when he could, going through old records, investigating anything that had a twinge of familiarity, but he'd come up empty handed. It had upset him at first, but as the years wore on, it mattered less. When he'd met Anne, it had ceased to concern him at all. Making a new life was an adequate means to replace the one he'd lost.

She couldn't remember her old life either. Most Forsaken couldn't, but Anne had made an effort to avoid finding out. Anne had reasoned that it was pointless – whoever she'd been was dead. Who she was now had her own set of experiences to identify with.

He admired Anne's pragmatism and courage, and often boggled at why she had become smitten with him in the first place. Not that he would ever complain, but oftentimes he felt like her exact opposite.

Had he been a father when he was alive? It pained him to think that might be true, but it was difficult to reconcile his powerful need to protect the tiny troll any other way. He had been compelled the moment he'd seen her wriggling on the stone altar, instincts welling up inside of him that he hadn't even been aware he possessed. Maybe he'd been a lucky uncle. The eldest in a large family.

The little troll – Tegan, he'd decided to call her for now – was worrying him greatly. It was nearly nightfall again, and she'd ceased her desperate wailing around noon. Even ice trolls needed some warmth, and he was ill-suited to providing it to her. She needed a warm meal and to be swaddled in furs, not the scratchy material he'd used to cover his head for purely aesthetic reasons.

Edgar kept an eye out for animals, wondering if Yvette's presence somehow drove them away. He was beginning to feel the weight of her words from yesterday – his intervention was only prolonging Tegan's suffering right now.

Yvette hadn't protested the infant since yesterday either, however. There had been a sudden turning point when she'd shifted from attempting to leave the child behind to sending him off with her. It hadn't been spoken of again, and with the infant quieting, he wondered if it would be best if he didn't address the issue at all.

Edgar himself was beginning to feel some unpleasant hunger pangs. How much longer would he last? The cold was making his joints ache painfully, and he didn't know how much harder he could push himself before he started losing his less resilient extremities. Without boots, his toes were first in line.

Without head cover, the remnants of his ears would likely be second. Maybe. His bushy hair might shield them enough.

Absorbed in his own thoughts and with Tegan, he almost didn't notice when they broke free of the tree line. What startled him out of his thoughts was the color green. They weren't upon it yet, but it was in the distance. As were buildings of architecture he couldn't recognize. They weren't ruins, but at the same time they seemed to be popping out of an ancient text. Even the smoke curling up from within the... village? Even that didn't seem quite real.

"Vrykul," Yvette said, her first words in nearly a day. Edgar came to stand beside her and nodded, wishing he could read _something_ off her blank face. Was she nervous? Optimistic? Was she even capable of feeling those things?

"How do you know they won't just kill us on sight?" Edgar fretted, "From the reports I've read-"

"They are allies of the Lich King," Yvette said. He was shocked to hear disgust plain in her voice – it was the first real emotion he'd heard from her, "I will be able to fool them."

"And what about myself and Teg- myself and the baby?" he said, quickly correcting himself. Yvette had caught it, of course, but seemed disinclined to pursue it.

"You are my servant, and the child is a ward of the Scourge."

Edgar grimaced, "Ward of the Scourge? That's far too convoluted. Nobody would buy that."

"When they see the mark on her ankle they won't question it," Yvette said.

"What does the mark mean?"

Yvette went silent and Edgar glanced down at the troll. What had the poor thing been born into?

"Pretend you're mute," Yvette suggested, "You won't understand anything they're saying anyway."

"What's your plan?" Edgar asked. More silence. His brow furrowed, "Yvette-"

She cut him off by trudging forward and he sighed. Even yesterday he would have protested and insisted she tell him what was going on, but he felt a sort of heavy despair and resignation settling into his bones. Did it really _matter_ what her plan was? If he was going to live, if _Tegan_ was, he'd just have to trust her. Trust a Death Knight who hadn't even bothered to wipe the gore from some troll meal off of her face.

Edgar looked down at the increasingly sluggish bundle clutched close to his chest and hoped that whatever dark purpose she'd been born into at least protected her from harm. He had no such hopes for himself – perhaps he looked ragged enough to be a servant, but Yvette's plan seemed flimsy and reckless. What if they didn't believe her? She couldn't hope to take on an entire village of vrykul. She couldn't be _that_ powerful.

Tegan wasn't his. Not even in some remote sense. She was a troll, an _ice_ troll, left in the wilderness to die for reasons unknown to him. Just because he'd taken it upon himself to attempt to protect her didn't mean he had any claim to her. If they survived the vrykul and made it across the fjord and back to the coast, she'd join the ranks of the many orphans Orgrimmar. Perhaps she'd be taken in by a troll family – the Darkspear's seemed loathe to let any race but their own rear their children.

In spite of all of that, he still felt obligated to do his best for her. Nobody else would.


	2. Chapter 2

Anne Jerrik, Captain of the Royal Deathguard, didn't like surprises.

She had made great advances in her career by minimizing surprises. Lord Varimathras and the Dark Lady didn't like them either, and her efforts towards the common goal had not gone unrewarded. Anne stood in the Royal Quarter with the Dark Lady and her Majordomo. It had been bristling with guards of late, some of them hand picked by Anne.

Anne overheard a great deal in her position. Oftentimes it was of little relevance, something to file away and never to be used again. Sometimes it would pique her interest, but she would keep it to herself, sharing it only with Edgar in the privacy of their home.

This was the first time she'd overheard something that had made her break rank.

"What's happened?"

Two pairs of unsettling eyes shifted onto her then, one pair a terrible synthesis of burning green and fathomless black void, and the other ruby red. They had both been reading a report that had been hurriedly presented to them. The messenger, however, wasn't game to look up from his feet.

"The zeppelin was attacked by the Scourge," Sylvanas told her, "They've found the wreckage washed up along the beach. No survivors."

"Are they sure?" Anne heard herself say. She ought to be asking who 'they' were, how old the news was.... no. She_ ought_ to be keeping her post, waiting to read the report herself later.

She'd recommended Edgar for the assignment. It would have looked good on his record, perhaps earn him some sort of promotion. And he'd been wanting to get out and see more of the world, though he'd admittedly wanted to do it alongside _her, _not a Death Knight of questionable allegiance.

"We must compose a letter to the Cartel immediately," Varimathras broke in, flicking an irate glare at Anne before fixing his attention on Sylvanas.

Sylvanas' gaze lingered on Anne only a moment before she engaged in a quiet, somewhat heated argument with her Majordomo on just how much they ought to kiss the Steamwheedle Cartel's ass to establish a trade route.

Numbly, Anne turned back to her post. No survivors.

Just like that, then. He was gone.

_No survivors_.

No.

No, she _refused_ to believe that. Not until she saw his body for herself, or some sort of proof.. _some_thing! They hadn't looked hard enough. Resources were tight. Of course they hadn't scoured the probable crash site or the entire coast line.

She would volunteer to do it herself. There had to be others who'd lost someone important in the crash. It hadn't been strictly military personnel, after all. Anne couldn't be the only one who wanted something more substantial than 'no survivors'.

Tension was mounting. There were whispers of betrayal deep in the ranks, and the sudden appearance of the Death Knight's had left everyone ill at ease. The recent, renewed aggression from the Scourge hadn't helped matters either. Every move from every leader on Azeroth was under heavy scrutiny by their terrified people. The Forsaken, especially, seemed to take the brunt of the scrutiny from all sides.

It was ridiculous to Anne. Why would they, who had already suffered enslavement and persisted in an eternal state of undeath _because_ of the Lich King, wish to return to being mindless zombies?

She counted herself lucky when neither Sylvanas or Varimathras addressed her gross misconduct at the end of the day. There was enough going on, and Anne knew she wasn't the only one who was a bit frayed around the edges.

When she read the official report on the zeppelin crash, however, Anne was ambushed by another surprise.

There wouldn't be further investigation into the crash. It had been cut and dry – the Scourge had attacked the zeppelin, intent on disrupting supplies and transportation. They would send more air support on the next trip.

Case closed.

Anne was amazed at her own composure. Her husband had been taking a great risk accepting the assignment to escort the Death Knight. Though Anne did not know a great deal about Yvette Brack, she did know that the Death Knight had sworn to lend her assistance to the establishment of the base at Vengeance Landing. She would have been a valuable resource.

But no one would mourn Yvette. It wasn't the Death Knight that mattered. She flipped to the zeppelin's passenger manifest, her dark lips pulled into a thin line. Anne would not be so quick to abandon her husband. Hopefully she wouldn't be alone in her convictions – surely there were those familiar with the names on the list who would join her.

* * *

Leave wasn't exactly worked into the employment scheme in the Undercity, and after a heated exchange with a nathrezim that dwarfed her in every conceivable aspect, Anne wondered just how badly she'd just mangled her own career. He'd had no sympathy for his loyal Captain's loss.

_He knew the risks_, Varimathras had sneered at her, _So did you. Things are busy and I need you doing a security review, not gallivanting around Northrend trying to find your husband's remains._

She'd told him where he could put his security review.

He'd informed her of an even better place for it.

Anne had spent the rest of the day knocking on doors, and was met with a shocking (_surprising?_) level of ambivalence. She was on the last name of her own list now, the man having sent his apprentice on an errand to fetch some sort of reagent from Northrend for him.

There had been _some_ interest with the others. Tonight she would review her savings and assets, see what favors she might be able to pull, and return to those few who looked like they might prove useful. Perhaps gold would curry their interest. After such a long day, she wasn't expecting much from a warlock of all people.

The door opened and Anne recoiled slightly, having to fight the instinct to put a hand over her nose and mouth. Though the man in front of her was quite tall, and had apparently been rather broad as well in life, he looked like a sloppily put together scarecrow now. And he smelled like he'd been bathing in spirits.

"_Hmmmm?_" he asked her. It was clear he was drunk, even without the smell. He'd reached the stage where he could only focus through one eye, giving the impression that he was imitating a pirate.

"Ivan? Ivan Forlon?" Anne asked, trying not to notice that the rangy man was barely wearing a towel. The strip of cloth rode low on his prominent hip bones, threatening to slide off or slip open any moment.

Ivan staggered a bit and caught his forearms on his doorframe, clearing his throat a few times before attempting a smooth, "Shhhpeaking."

Anne sighed, "Do you know Makenzie Belkova?"

The drunk warlock's indifference turned promptly urgent and he placed his hands on Anne's shoulders, leaning on her heavily to stay upright. Anne staggered, bracing her hands on his chest so she didn't get bowled over. She was mildly disgusted to find that he was still wet from his bath. At least, she hoped that was what he'd been doing.

"Did you find 'er?" he slurred, searching Anne's face. Though he was obviously in a half-stupor, she could identify with the panic in his eyes, and she didn't shove him off. Not right away, anyway.

"No-" Anne said, grimacing as he poked her angrily in the chest before she could say more.

"Why th'fuck not!?" Ivan demanded, "Shhhh'my fault she'sh trapped up there. Shoulda gone myshelf. You can't jusht _leave_ 'em all up there!"

"Ivan, please," the ex-deathguard said, making a gentle attempt to push him off. Even though he was a scholar, he was stronger than he looked, and it took a fair bit of force to dislodge him. Ivan staggered back and caught himself on his door, glaring at her.

"Lord Varimathras thinks it's a waste of resources," she raised a hand to silence him, giving him a warning look, "I don't. I'm going to see about organizing an private expedition. I won't leave my husband up there to die."

"D'you think some of 'em shurvived?" Ivan asked, absently adjusting his towel.

"Can I come inside, Ivan?" Anne asked. People were starting to stare.

"Shure," he said, stumbling aside. Anne hurried in, raising her eyebrows at the cluttered interior. It reminded her a lot of how a mage's home would look, only there were more skulls and candles on top of everything else.

There was a wet trail that Anne assumed lead back to bathroom. She had interrupted bath time, then. Drunk bath time.

"Sorry I interrupted your bath," she offered, clearing her throat pointedly.

Ivan seemed to merrily avoid her point and slumped down onto a plush, if worn chair, gesturing she do the same.

"Thirshty?" he asked. The warlock was making a clear effort not to present himself as completely smashed. His success was minimal.

"No thank you," Anne said. It figured the first real reaction she managed to get was from a drunkard. She couldn't judge him entirely just now, though. He was obviously upset over the loss of his apprentice. Just because her method of grieving involved being a control freak didn't mean he couldn't cope by get completely wrecked on spirits.

"Hedizza!" he barked out. A clicking of hooves made Anne's posture straighten just slightly – it was a delicate clopping, much more refined than the heavy footfalls of the Majordomo. He'd all but desensitized her to demons.

You couldn't be entirely desensitized to them, though, in Anne's private opinion. Not without losing some fraction of your soul.

"Master?" the sayaad purred, running her wickedly clawed fingers over his bare, pallid chest. Hedizza eyeballed Anne, sizing her up, but didn't comment. She nuzzled the side of Ivan's head and he shrugged her off a little, perhaps irritated by her behavior but resigned to it all the same.

"Make me shome coffee," he said, waving a hand in the direction of what Anne assumed was the kitchen. Hedizza looked furious with the mundane task and pursed her lips, whiplike tail lashing behind her.

"Of course, _Master_," she said spitefully, stomping off. Some warlocks were inevitably smitten with their shapely sayad companions, but if Ivan was, he couldn't muster the energy too fawn over his. Ivan rubbed his face and rested both his hands on top of his bald head a moment.

"I know what you're going through," Anne tried, a sympathetic expression on her face, "I won't rest until I'm absolutely sure of what happened to my husband. I... it was my idea for him to go on the trip, too."

"D'you really think they're alive?" Ivan asked her. He didn't sound terribly optimistic, but at the same time, his inebriation allowed a hopeful expression to spread over his face.

"I'm not sure," Anne admitted, her voice wavering just slightly, "I intend to find out, though, one way or another."

"Who elsh is comin'?" he asked, accepting coffee from his scowling companion when she returned. Hedizza attempted to hang on him, but he shooed her off again.

Hedizza skulked off into a shadowy corner, only the fel light of her eyes visible. Anne wondered if it was such a good idea to treat a demon like a servant, but didn't bother mentioning it. It wasn't her business.

"Just you so far," she said, waving her list in the air. It felt a bit like waving a flag of surrender as the paper fluttered, "Most of the passengers didn't have family or close associates. It makes sense, I suppose. There aren't many who would risk casual trips to Northrend just yet."

Ivan looked pained and took a hearty swallow of his coffee, grimacing at how hot it was afterward. He finished the entire cup and had Hedizza pour him another before he spoke again, his speech much improved.

"I can call in some favors," Ivan said, "A priest I can guarantee. He's a man of the Light, not the shadows, before you even ask."

Anne smirked but said nothing, deciding that Ivan was turning out to be a _pleasant_ surprise. It was about time she'd had one.

"Anyone else?" she wondered, raising an eyebrow. Ivan nodded, but wobbled one large hand uncertainly.

"Possibly a shadow hunter. Maybe a rogue," Ivan said, shaking his head a little, "The priest I can ask after I sober up a bit. The other two don't live in the Undercity."

"I could take messages to them," Anne offered. It sounded like decent enough gathering of hopefully competent people. They'd need any resources they could get their hands on for an expedition into relatively unexplored territory. That it also happened to be the Lich King's territory went without saying.

"The other two... well," Ivan looked uncomfortable, but didn't seem keen to express why, "The shadow hunter lives in Sen'jin. The rogue probably still hangs around in Orgrimmar. I haven't been in contact with either of them for a little over a year."

"How do you know these people? Why do they owe you a favor?" Anne pried. She'd get what she could out of him while he was still mostly drunk – for all she knew he'd clam up when he was sober, and for a warlock to have so many apparently friendly connections made her suspicious. Generally warlocks were only really friends with other warlocks. Sometimes mages.

Ivan rubbed a hand over his face and offered her a lopsided grin, "Don't laugh. We used to adventure together. When the Dark Portal opened a few years back we ended up banding together, mostly for protection, though we all had our reasons."

"What sort of reasons?" Anne wondered.

"Financial reasons," Ivan smirked, "Well, all but the priest. He's my brother. He only came to make sure I didn't single handedly make Draenor dissolve into the nether."

A disdainful eye roll made Anne wonder if Ivan was being overconfident of convincing his brother of anything. They obviously weren't on the best of terms.

"So the other two-"

"Makenzie was with us, too," Ivan said, voice tightening as he said her name.

"Of the other three," Anne corrected gently, "The shadow hunter and the rogue. Why do you think they'll agree to come along?"

"The shadow hunter agrees, the rogue definitely will," Ivan said with a bleary wave of his hand, "They've had some... _differences_, the two of them, but both of them like money more than they hate each other."

"Ah," the Forsaken woman said with a grim sigh, "They'll need to be paid, will they?"

"Trolls aren't very charitable creatures," Ivan pointed out, leaning forward slightly, "I'll throw in some gold as well, though. It's the least I can do for..."

Anne raised a hand, cutting him off, "Blaming yourself won't help, Ivan."

He didn't look convinced, and Anne had to admit her conviction wasn't all that strong. She was still blaming herself for Edgar's predicament, after all. What place did she have advising others not to follow her example?

"Anyway," he said after an awkward pause, "I don't think they'll be too hard to buy. Makenzie was a friend to them, even if..."

Ivan trailed off and drank from his rapidly cooling coffee with another grimace.

"Even if you weren't?" Anne guessed. She didn't have high hopes for these trolls, or even the brother. A warlock was better than nothing, at least. Part of her wanted to take the time to carefully organize a search party, hire some _real _mercenaries from Booty Bay, but she didn't have the luxury of time. Every day she didn't know where Edgar was put him just that much further out of her reach. Because he _wasn't_ dead.

Dark Lady help her, she didn't know what she'd do if he was. Anne rubbed the spot under her gauntlet where her ring was and offered Ivan a thin smile.

"If you'll convince your brother, Ivan, I'll see what I can do about the trolls," she offered.

"When?" Ivan asked.

"I'll leave now," Anne said, making Ivan blink. He smiled a little in spite of himself after a moment, appreciating her more subdued level of desperation.

Anne stood and Ivan did as well, the tall man offering Anne his hand.

"Thank the nether for you, Miss..." he trailed off and blinked, realizing he hadn't asked her name.

"Anne Jerrik," she said, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake, "Don't thank me yet, Ivan. We'll see where we stand tomorrow."

Ivan seemed surprised by her grip and nodded at her, "I'll get those names for you, before you go."

"That'd be very helpful."

He scribbled two names down on a scrap of parchment and pressed it into her hand, covering her hand with both of his a moment.

"Thanks, Anne," Ivan said with the heavy sincerity only drunks could muster, "My solution to this involved drowning in liquor until I forgot what I was drinking for."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ivan," Anne said. He nodded after a moment and she left the cluttered home, taking a deep breath of the slightly fresher air outside. She glanced down at the names, deciding she'd find the shadow hunter, Shalar'zahn, first. Anne returned to her own home first to pack for a short overnight trip. Everything inside of her was screaming to forget all the shady characters she was apparently going to work with. They were obviously going to complicate and compromise the mission, and she'd be better off taking care of things her own way, by herself.

By that same token, she'd be insane to venture into Northrend on her own. Dysfunctional assistance would be better than none at all, even if it was a slim margin that made it so.

She wouldn't waste more than an hour reasoning with either troll. Diplomacy wasn't Anne's strong suit, but she was a soldier and a leader. Hopefully whatever animosity these two might have for Ivan would be overshadowed by their concern for Makenzie Belkova. And if it wasn't, she'd buy their concern.

If it was too dearly bought, then she'd just hope the warlock would agree to stay sober for the duration of the trip. He'd had the air of someone who was well-practiced at being drunk. Normally she avoided associating with someone like Ivan, but these were extraordinary circumstances. Edgar was depending on her.

Anne wasn't going to let him down.

* * *

Ivan finished the rest of the pot of coffee Hadizza had made for him before he got dressed, dismissing the ornery succubus after she helped him find his clothes. His brother wasn't going to be terribly impressed with his late arrival, and he'd be especially irritated by the smell of spirits. Hopefully the coffee would mostly overpower that, at least. The smell of _effort_ might overshadow the booze.

The warlock pulled on some of his less flamboyant robes. It was a slightly empty gesture, as it would only make Igor more suspicious of his motives. Ivan wasn't a considerate person, at least not to his twin, and Igor was no fool.

He was counting on Igor to think of poor Makenzie, all alone somewhere on the roof of the world, than for him to do anything for the sake of his brother. Ivan had long ago worn away his more pious siblings patience.

The hall mirror was cruel enough to point out that he still looked like he'd spent the day drinking, his posture not quite still, his eyes slightly out of focus. Ivan grunted and stalked out of his home anyway. Even if he'd spent the day hugging orphans and drinking tea, Igor would've found something wrong with it.

He took a moment to summon his dreadsteed, the demonic horse letting out an indignant scream as it burst onto the prime material plane. Though he'd stolen it some time ago, Ivan still felt a swell of pride at having mastered the creature, and gave it an affectionate slap on its scaly flank before mounting it. The demon horse snorted, expelling a gout of flame, less than endeared to its current master. It had no choice to obey him, however, his mastery over it absolute.

As it pawed the cobbled ground once with its cloven hooves, Ivan urged the temperamental beast out into the Undercity, being cautious to keep the dreadsteed from galloping through the damp, dreary tunnels. It wasn't quite so crowded at night, but he didn't want to be a part of any trampling incidents. He was likely on his last warning when it came to those.

Most citizens knew to give fiery demonic horses a wide berth, in any case, and he was up and out of the Undercity soon, the cool air of Tirisfal Glades on his face. Ivan paused a moment, looking up at the zeppelin tower. It ran twenty four hours, and he wondered idly if Anne was on the one currently anchored and loading, preparing to leave again for Kalimdor. Probably. She seemed like that type. The annoying type who always did what they said they were going too.

With an irritable snort he urged his dreadsteed onwards, towards Brill. Igor was probably asleep by now, likely having risen at what passed for dawn in the dreary countryside.

Igor didn't live in Brill itself, having built a home a short distance beyond it. He was the complete opposite of his twin brother, almost to the point of them being an overblown cliché.

Ivan was a warlock. He was a gregarious womanizer and a hedonist, taking great pleasure from his many vices. His act had been cleaned up _somewhat_ by Makenzie, but both of them were warlocks. The dark arts attracted a certain sort.

Meanwhile, his twin studied the tenants of the Light. He was a charitable, kind man who more often than not refused compensation for the tasks he performed. Igor preferred his privacy, and Ivan couldn't recall if he'd ever had a relationship that went beyond polite friendship.

Even the exterior of his home was pleasant looking. He'd taken good care of it, though it wasn't much more than a glorified shack. Tirisfal wasn't well known for its attractive shrubbery, but Igor had of course managed to find some and arrange them tastefully around his porch. With a resigned sigh, Ivan dismounted, avoiding a snap of the dreadsteed's teeth as he passed it's fiery head.

He knocked firmly on the door, self-consciously straightening his robes while he waited. The curtains moved, just outside his field of vision, but by the time he turned to look they'd fallen back into place.

Ivan listened, and only heard one latch undo before the door opened and his mirror image glared back at him. Despite their differences, even in undeath they looked largely the same. Tall, bald, rangy men with a slight stoop.

"What do you want?" Igor asked him crisply. The priest had a long nightshirt on, and Ivan bit back a snarky comment on the ridiculous getup. Who wore clothes to bed, anyway? All he needed was a silly cap with a poofball on the end to complete his goofy look.

"Sorry if I woke you," Ivan apologized, trying to be amiable. Igor grimaced, unconvinced, and waved a hand in front of his nose.

"Are you drunk?"

"A little."

"What do you _want_, Ivan?" Igor said impatiently. His jaw was tight, irritation quite clear as he spoke through his teeth.

"Makenzie is missing," Ivan said, finding it difficult to speak to his brother seriously. Their conversations were generally just escalating barbs until one of them started shouting. Usually Ivan did, as he was far more adept at badgering his mild mannered twin into whatever he required.

"Come to her senses, has she?" Igor said sharply, though there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, "You have only yourself to blame, I'm sure."

Ivan winced. Generally he didn't let those sorts of barbs get to him, or go unpunished, but he deserved that one. Deserved it more than Igor knew. Perhaps it had been a poor idea to come to him – he hadn't realized just how vulnerable he was.

"Ivan, what have you done?" Igor demanded, alarmed by his twins reaction.

"It's not my fault!" Ivan blurted angrily, making a harsh gesture, "There was no way I could've known the zeppelin would get attacked!"

"Zeppelin attacked? What? I heard nothing about... Light keep me, Ivan, she wasn't on the zeppelin that was heading to Northrend the other day, was she!?"

Ivan said nothing and found he couldn't hold his brother's gaze, instead looking down at the hem of his robes. It was a little frayed. He ought to have it taken to his tailor.

"You selfish bastard," Igor said quietly, disgust clear in his voice, "_Why_ would you send her? What could you have _possibly_ needed that you couldn't get for yourself? Needed a few days to carouse the bars guilt free, did you?"

"I've_ never_ cheated on her!" Ivan protested angrily, clenching his hands into tight fists.

"At least not in a way you couldn't justify to yourself, you disgusting-"

Igor reeled back from Ivan's solid punch to his jaw, the warlock advancing on the priest and looming over him.

"She's missing and it_ is_ my fault, all right!?" Ivan seethed, pretending he wasn't bothered by Igor's wounded, shocked expression as he rubbed his jaw. There was a sick crack as Igor shifted his jaw back into place, a gentle glow as he repaired the damage.

"Did you just come here so you could beat on me? Because I've long since had my fill of that," Igor said cooly. There was steel in his gentle voice now, and Ivan flexed his fingers, wishing he had a bit more self control. He didn't need his brother's harsh judgments just now.

"I came here for your help!" Ivan exclaimed. He threw his hands in the air, exasperated, and offered Igor a hand up. Igor swatted it away and stood under his own power, eying his twin warily.

"_My _help?" Igor repeated, "How could I help? I'm sure they're organizing a rescue party. Go badger them."

"They're not going to bother," Ivan said, smoothing his robes in an attempt to channel his anger. It wasn't Igor's fault. What reasons had Ivan given him to trust him or take him seriously?

"What?" Igor frowned. He looked dubious.

"Waste of resources. This woman, Anne Jerrik-"

"She's the Captain of the Royal Deathguard, isn't she?" Igor interrupted.

"I don't fucking know!" Ivan snapped, making a sharp, irate gesture. Igor flinched, expecting to be struck again, and Ivan pretended he didn't feel like a complete heel as a result, "Anyway, her husband was on the zeppelin too. She wants to find him, which means she'll help find Makenzie too. I told her where to find 'Zahn and Murdok, and we can all go up to Northrend and find-"

"Ivan, are you insane?" Igor asked, interrupting him yet again, "You're far beyond your limits even asking _me _for help. You can't expect them to go along with this. They have their own problems. Besides... _Northrend?_ Perhaps a trained soldier is qualified to go on some vigilante rescue mission, but I'm a simple man of the faith-"

"Makenzie needs-!"

"It's not my fault your selfish nonsense has hurt someone!" Igor growled, "Don't drag the rest of your friends down with you just to correct your mistake! Listen to what you're asking, Ivan. Northrend! And who even knows if she's still alive-"

Ivan grabbed the front of Igor's nightshirt violently and pressed him up against a wall, knocking over a simple table in the process.

"She_ is_," Ivan hissed desperately, "I know you hate me, brother, but you got along with her. Do this for her, if you won't for me."

"Or else?" Igor said, voice wavering.

The twin's faces were inches from each other, Igor leaning away as far as the wall behind him would allow, Ivan doing everything in his power not to beat his uppity brother to a pulp. How had they become so different?

It was the same reason they no longer got along.

Ivan released Igor and took a few steps back, making placating motions with his hands. Though it would make him feel momentarily better, picking on his twin accomplished nothing. He didn't like being cruel to Igor, it was just the only way he knew how to let his brother know he was thinking about him.

"_Please_, Igor," Ivan said, hating how vulnerable he felt, how pathetic he must look. He commanded demons and could channel the nether, but somehow couldn't manage a conversation with his brother without resorting to violence, "She's... she means everything to me. I don't know what I'll do without her."

Igor breathed out a heavy sigh and ran his hands over his night shirt. There were tears and burns where his brother had gripped the cloth. It was ruined, in essence, and a rather fitting metaphor for most things Ivan came in contact with.

"She deserves better than you, Ivan," Igor said grimly.

"I know," Ivan said.

"She doesn't deserve to be stranded in Northrend because of you," the priest shook his head, "When are we going?"

"Thank you Igor. Thank you," Ivan gushed, taking a step towards his brother to hug him before thinking better of it. Igor didn't look like he was in much of a hugging mood.

"When should I be ready?" Igor repeated. _Please_ and _Thank You _were alien terms coming out of his twin's mouth, and he clearly didn't trust it for a second.

"She's left already, Anne has, to talk to 'Zahn and Murdok. Anne wants to leave as soon as possible. So tomorrow sometime, I suppose," Ivan said, adding another, "Thank you, Igor."

"Thank me with sobriety tomorrow," Igor responded harshly, "Goodnight, Ivan."

Ivan lingered for a few moments, feeling as though he ought to say more. Maybe apologize for acting like a ruffian.

Instead, he turned and left his brother's home, returning to his glaring dreadsteed. Ivan hadn't even pulled himself up into the saddle before he heard the latch click back into place.

* * *

Durotar's scorching heat was something Anne was happy to sidestep, a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean as she stepped off of the zeppelin and made her way down the tower. There weren't many travelers at this time of night, and she paid them no mind as she waited for her steed to be let out of the hold. It probably would have been easier to just rent a wolf for the day, but she wanted to ensure fast travel. The skeletal horse wouldn't be bothered by the heat, hard packed ground, or dust.

She was resolved to visiting Sen'jin tomorrow – it would be too late in the evening if she rode out now. Though Ivan had suggested securing Shalar'zahn before Murdok, she'd have to do things her own way to save time. Ivan's handwriting left a great deal to be desired, but she could make out the name of a tavern scrawled next to his name.

The Drunk Raptor sounded like an_ exceptionally _respectable establishment.

Anne rode in through the massive gates of Orgrimmar, noting how much livelier the orcish city was. None of the somber greys and purples seemed prevalent in the torchlit capitol. Even at night she was confronted with vibrant reds, oranges and yellows. Everything about Orgrimmar was large and loud and full of life. Not even a hint of the hushed, subdued ways of the Forsaken was prevalent.

The few Forsaken she saw amongst Orgrimmar's residents seemed to be caught up in the spirit of the place. Even sin'dorei seemed obliged too... at least at night, when less people might be watching. The Undercity was largely all business, Silvermoon was exclusive to the blood elves, and the proud tauren did not embrace rowdiness in their sacred city of Thunder Bluff.

Trolls and orcs, however, had a zest and zeal for life that spilled over into everything they did.

She moved slowly through the crowds, towards the Drag, unable to help but glance up around her at the densely packed architecture. Orgrimmar was the only city in the Horde that continued to grow, both up and out, and it had a welcoming feel. How much of it was the nature of its people, and how much of it was the result of careful planning by its leader?

If the Valley of Strength was crowded, the Drag was packed to the gills. Anne would have been hard pressed to suspect they were at war with the Burning Legion and the Scourge, that they had only recently come close to being wiped out by plague. Life had to go on, though, didn't it?

Anne tied her steed to a post when it became clear she wouldn't get much farther on it, and managed to get directions to the Drunk Raptor soon after. It was a somewhat exclusively troll bar, which didn't surprise her, but it wasn't quite as rowdy as she excepted a bar of that sort to be.

It seemed to be, for lack of a better description, filled with shady characters. Hardly anyone even looked up when she strolled in, and the bartender leaned forward when she approached the bar, expression unreadable.

"Wha'choo want?" he grunted at her. She glanced around and shrugged.

"I'm looking for someone," Anne said. Honesty was the best policy with trolls.

"Look somewe'ah else," the bartender said, pointing at the door.

"Murdok," the Forsaken returned, unphased, "Have you heard of him? Does he come here?"

"Yah smell be chasin' off mah custahmuh's," the bartender said, narrowing his eyes only slightly, "Go stink up somewe'ah's else!"

Anne didn't rise to the insult. Quite the contrary, she smiled.

"I have a message for him, from Ivan-"

"Gonna t'row you out mahself, mon, if yah don' piss off!" the troll snarled, pointing again, more emphatic. Some of the other patrons stirred, and Anne knew if she pushed much further it wouldn't just be the bartender escorting her out.

She put up her hands, still smiling, and started to back out.

"All right, well, if you see him, tell him that Ivan's looking for him," Anne said cheerfully.

Some rather choice insults were thrown after her in Zandalari, and she started to make her way back towards her horse. If Murdok had been in there, she hoped he'd heard her and came to investigate for himself.

Most people would fear for their life when a hand clasped over their mouth and a they were yanked bodily into an alley. Anne did her best not to smile against his hand, though he'd be hard pressed to feel it through the thick leather glove.

Something undeniably sharp was pressed against her back, making her arch up a bit on her toes to keep it from jabbing her too painfully.

"Yah don' look stupid up close," a troll voice whispered in her ear, "Whatya doin' workin' fo'Ivan den? Eh? Yah not goan' tah scream when I move mah hand?"

Anne shook her head slightly. A scream would likely be drowned out in the busy street anyway, muffled by the alley. Slowly, he pulled his hand away, but didn't allow Anne to turn around. He kept hold of her throat instead, loosely, ready to tighten his grip the moment she struggled.

"I'm not working for him," Anne assured who she could only assume was Murdok, "But I do need to talk to you about a matter regarding him."

That seemed to catch Murdok off guard and he was silent a moment, turning the new information over before responding.

"Whatchoo want?" he asked.

Anne twisted abruptly out of his grip, turning the tide and pressing a blade to his throat even as he adjusted by pressing his own to her belly. It wasn't as though there was much left in there to damage, but it would still hurt like hell.

The troll in front of her was almost entirely encased in leather, only his eyes, nose and tusks peeking out from the black shroud. His eyes were wide in surprise at the sudden turn around – clearly he'd underestimated the slight Forsaken.

"There was an expedition to Northrend," Anne said casually, slowly pulling her own blade away from his throat. He didn't follow suit right away, but he didn't attempt to gut her, either. Good. She had his attention, "My husband was on it. So was someone you might know – Makenzie."

Recognition registered in his eyes, and she continued, "The expedition was attacked. The Undercity's official reaction is to leave it. They've declared the zeppelin and its passenger's lost. No survivors. Myself and Ivan, however, disagree. He said you might be for hire, to help with my investigation."

"Ivan be goin'?" the troll asked, keeping his hand close to his vest.

"He is," Anne nodded.

"Who else?"

"His brother," she said, hoping it wasn't a lie, "I'll be heading out in the morning to speak to Shalar'zahn as well."

Murdok snorted and gave Anne a light shove back, sheathing his weapons and pulling down his face mask.

"She won' help," the troll said bitterly.

"What makes you say that?" Anne asked. She leaned on the opposite wall from Murdok, a thin smile pulling at her lips. No surprises so far.

"She be a resentful bitch," Murdok said plainly, "Don' like nobody. Wot you say yah name was?"

"I didn't. It's Anne," she said.

"Murdok, but you know dat eh?"

Anne nodded.

"Are you going to help?" she wondered. Anne was pretty certain she knew the answer already.

"Yah mon," Murdok said, eyeballing Anne, "Ivan be a slipp'ry one but dat Makenzie, she a good girl. His fault she be trapped up dere, yeah?"

"In a roundabout way," Anne said. She didn't like paying someone out when they weren't present to defend themselves, but at the moment, she was fairly certain Murdok was going to use her to take a shot at the shadow hunter. Which meant she might not have to pay him for his time.

Murdok snorted.

"I know where 'Zahn be livin'," he said, "Take yah dere in de mornin', but I be tellin yah now, she won' go 'long wit' it. Be more interested in de spirits."

The troll spat on the ground and offered Anne a famous troll smile – all teeth and tusks, as though he'd just as soon eat her as shake her hand.

"Worth a try," she said, "Where should I meet you?"

"Yah can stay wit me," he suggested, looking her over. Anne knew she was less broken down than most Forsaken. There was only a hint of deterioration in her face, though her joints had suffered badly like most of her kind. It was her hair that sold it, though. Her coal black locks hadn't faded or thinned, a stroke of luck she didn't dare question. She'd let them fall around her face for the purposes of blending in, knowing a helm made her more... official. Intimidating, even, despite her stooped, small stature in comparison to her much more vertically inclined allies.

"That's all right," Anne said, "I prefer privacy."

"Ain't gonna be none when we on da hunt."

"I'll savor it while I can, then."

"Suit yahself. In front of da Drunk Raptor, den," Murdok shrugged. He deemed the conversation was over and pulled his face cover back up, straightening it a little before slinking back out into the crowded street. Though Anne watched him keenly, she had only to blink to lose sight of him.

Finding a room proved to be somewhat difficult at the late hour, but she didn't mind taking a sub par room. Comfort wasn't a necessity, or a luxury she cared to afford with hefty bribes looming in her future. That the trolls might go without any bribing at all was something she was counting on. She'd need every cent if she had any hope of getting a zeppelin up to Northrend. If she couldn't book it privately, perhaps she could at least pay her way onto the next one. From what she'd overheard, Varimathras had suggested an even more exorbitant sum to cover 'danger fees' for the zeppelin operator's. Though goblins had high self preservation instincts, their superiors would be far more interested in the money. Surely another one would be scheduled to leave soon? Vengeance Landing would be hurting for supplies, and the ships would take another few weeks yet.

Anne drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, torn between needing rest and worrying after Edgar. Was he by himself? Was he with the survivors? Perhaps he and Makenzie were helping each other.

Perhaps the Death Knight had killed them all.

Morning seemed to take its time, and Anne was waiting on her steed for two hours before Murdok finally showed up. Her mount was heavily barded in Undercity finery, contrasting sharply with the almost artfully arranged straps, feathers and fetishes that adorned his raptor. The large reptile seemed unphased by her undead horse, and she supposed if it had spent any time around a warlock's steed, her own would be quite blasé in comparison.

Murdok yawned and waved at her lazily.

"Yah 'ave breakfast?" he asked.

"No time," Anne lied. She just hadn't been hungry, "Let's go."

Another shrug was his reply, and he urged his raptor forward. The city was somewhat empty in the early hours of the day, inhabited only by guards and shopkeepers. Once they hit the red earth of Durotar they rode hard, stirring up dust in their wake. Neither spoke.

Anne tried to imagine the situation she was walking into. They'd had some sort of disagreement, these two, and it had shattered a close relationship. Both had too much pride to be the one to apologize. Neither could do without the other.

It was that, or they honestly loathed each other. Shadow Hunter's were the most aloof of the trolls, being in touch with ancient spirits exclusive to their people.

They paused briefly in Razor Hill, letting his raptor have a deep drink of water and a rub down before they continued on to Sen'jin, the troll village's primitive architecture stark against the backdrop of the ocean. It was a bustling village, so simple compared to Orgrimmar, but she knew they had expanded back onto the Echo Isles somewhat recently, their less agreeable cousins having finally been driven away.

Trolls were strange creatures. They took well to the civilization the orcs offered, but at the same time, seemed content to dwell in huts in a coastal fishing village. Their more savage cousins built empires and vast edifices to their dark gods, but the Darkspear were simpler creatures.

Simple was, perhaps, not the correct term. They were more _agreeable_. Reasonable, even. Though she'd never say so out loud, Anne imagined they were just grateful to be alive and under the protection of a far stronger empire. The Darkspear trolls would not have lasted on their own.

Murdok seemed to know exactly where he was going, leading her through the village and to a small, crudely constructed dock. The villagers waved amiably to both of them, though they only spoke to Mudok. He spoke back in Zandalari, grinning, good natured. Far more pleasant than he'd been last night.

They tied their mounts on a post near the dock and enjoyed a rickety canoe ride out to the Echo Isles. Anne glanced up, squinting, guessing it was nearly noon. She hoped they'd be back in the Undercity by sundown, ready to leave by tomorrow. They couldn't possibly prepare for everything they'd need to in an evening, but they had no choice.

The rogue led her into the lush jungle, down a path that looked well trod, and they came upon an elaborate looking hut. It was festooned with animal skulls and fetishes, the outer walls decorated with brightly painted face masks and troll sigils.

Murdok seemed reluctant to approach right away, obviously at war with something inside of himself, and so it was Anne who moved forward to knock next to the open doorway. Shalar'zahn did not have a proper door, but strings of shells instead, and they shifted together in the faint breeze to make a pleasant tinkling sound.

"Yah yah," came a female voice. She said something else in Zandalari as she pushed back the strings, blinking in surprise when she was met with Anne, "Undead eh? Don' get yah kind out heyah much. I- eh! Wot you t'ink you doin' heyah!?"

Shalar'zahn pushed past Anne, pointing accusingly at Murdok. Her hair was a wild explosion of red dreadlocks, and her garb just as garish as her house. It was meant to be deceiving, though – shadow hunters were fierce creatures that Anne herself would think twice about stirring up.

"I be wit' her," Murdok said, pointing at Anne. Shalar whirled, the bones and beads weaved into her hair clinking together, and narrowed her eyes.

"Dat so?" she demanded. When the shadow hunter was no longer looking at him, Anne noted Murdok's expression. He was trying not to smile.

"You're a friend of Makenzie Belkova, yes?" Anne said, responding with a question of her own.

Shalar'zahn offered a curt nod, scowl deepening.

"She's gone missing. I'm organizing a search party to find her, amongst others that have been lost in an attack on a zeppelin that was en route to Northrend."

"Nort'rend!?" Shalar'zahn exclaimed, taken aback, "Yah crazy! Makenzie nevah be dat stupid. Unless..."

"Ivan's fault," Murdok cut in, drawing a murderous glare from the female troll.

"He worse dan you, I t'ink," she sniped.

"I hope to be heading out by tomorrow," Anne interjected, certain that the two trolls would easily forget her and jump into an argument if she didn't, "Will you help, Shalar'zahn? I've lost my husband, and Ivan has convinced his brother to come along as well."

Shalar'zahn thought hard, mostly glaring at Murdok as she did so.

"I be goin'," Murdok offered.

"How much she payin' yah?"

"Not'in!" the male troll scowled, looking offended, "Makenzie be owah fre'n!"

"He lyin', yah?" Shalar'zahn asked of Anne.

"No one's contracted to receive any payment," Anne smiled. Shalar'zahn still seemed dubious, and vocally hissed at Murdok when he tried to take a step closer to her. The shadow hunter regarded him warily, obviously weighing some things in her head.

"I go den," she said, "I owe her. Lemme pack."

Shalar'zahn turned and stalked back into her hut, and Anne raised her eyebrows at Murdok.

He was too busy watching the doorway to notice.


	3. Chapter 3

With their harsh tongue, overwrought dress and structures that wavered between crudely simple and madly intricate, Edgar decided that the vrykul reminded him a great deal of trolls. They didn't_ resemble_ them in the least, the massive men and women more reminiscent of humans than anything else. It was unsettling. To him, anyway. Yvette, as usual, was non plussed. She played the part of Scourge Herald far too well, speaking to the vrykul in their own harsh tongue, leaving him to guess at what was being said. There were many gestures to himself and to poor little Tegan. Edgar didn't care too terribly about what was said, exactly, so long as it translated to food and warmth for the fading infant.

The largest vrykul, his face painted and his armor the most elaborate, barked something out and a woman came forward promptly. Though she looked no less fierce than her male counterparts, she contrasted sharply with the baby she was cradling, the child nearly lost in her many layers of thick furs.

Edgar watched the two vrykul speak, watched Yvette nod, and stiffened slightly when the leader pointed at Tegan. Part of him was relieved, of course – if this woman was going to nurse Tegan, it would be a far cry better than feeding her livestock milk. The rest of him, though, had been taking solace in clinging to the baby troll, and he was loathe to give her up. It was a tad pathetic, but he'd taken some comfort in her tiny presence. Without her, he was a rather useless tag along who had been regulated to the role of 'mute servant'.

If he resisted, though, it might undermine everything Yvette had just set up. Assuming she hadn't told them to just kill him after they got the baby.

Pulling a disgusted face, the vrykul woman obeyed her Chieftan and approached Edgar, shifting her grip on her own chubby baby so she could offer a free arm to Tegan. Carefully, Edgar placed the baby troll in the arm of the woman, being careful not to make eye contact. He was supposed to be a subordinate here, but he hoped he hadn't just passed Tegan off for good.

The vrykul woman let out an irritable sigh and turned to walk off, ducking into one of the smaller buildings nearby, presumably so she could look after both children.

_Good luck, Tegan_, he thought, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. Edgar found that it was difficult not to fidget without something to hold onto, and tried to dwell on something else to keep him busy. Looking down at his feet, though, he wondered how completely ridiculous he looked without boots. Hell, by the way he was dressed, he looked like someone who'd tried to dress up in their father's armor and had failed miserably.

And just how did Yvette know how to speak vrykul? He almost looked up then, eyes flicking up tentatively, counting himself lucky when nobody noticed. It made sense that she might have known as part of the Scourge, but she _wasn't _anymore. Had she retained _everything_ she'd learned while enslaved by the Lich King? What _else_ did she know? Had this whole thing been some kind of setup?

She'd certainly picked a convoluted way of getting him killed, if that were the case. He was worrying needlessly. If Yvette wanted him dead, she had possessed the means to do so long before they'd ended up stranded in Northrend.

He rubbed his hands together absently, reassured by the feeling of his wedding ring against his skin. Anne was probably worried, desperately worried, and he hoped he'd be able to reassure her soon. What was she doing right now? Badgering mages? Arguing with her superiors? Mourning her loss? No. Anne wouldn't give up on him that easily. He wouldn't give up on her that quick.

_If only I'd been stranded with an Archmage_, Edgar smirked to himself. For all of Yvette's deadly potential, she didn't seem to be good for much more than destruction.

That they'd been stranded here because the Scourge were after Yvette made him somewhat nervous. If the vrykul were allies with the Scourge, surely word would get back to them about this? He wouldn't underestimate the warrior race's ability to communicate with the Lich King. Up close, their village wasn't all that primitive. For all he knew, they would send out a rider as soon as they'd finished talking with Yvette.

The Death Knight's icy grasp jolted him out of his thoughts, and he fought the urge to look up at her. He also fought the urge to recoil from her touch. No matter how cold he was, nothing came close to what Yvette's grip did to him.

"We're welcome to stay the night," Yvette told him in Gutterspeak. It was jarring to hear it spoken after using common for so long, but he nodded slightly, letting her drag him along, "I'll see to getting you properly outfitted."

"What-"

"Don't speak, you're _mute_," the Death Knight hissed, tightening her grip on his arm painfully, "We're going to the banquet hall. You'll eat later. Servants aren't allowed to dine with everyone else."

After a beat, she added, "The child is being looked after by the Chieftan's wife. If it were not for my perceived position of rank in the Scourge, they would have likely added it to the banquet. The Winterskorn have no love for the Drakkari."

Edgar wanted to say something, to ask for more information, but he kept his mouth shut. Just how long was she planning on staying here with these Winterskorn? What story had she told them? Would the Winterskorn help them resupply or would they assume creatures such as they required no sustenance?

When they entered the hall, Edgar felt a wave of relief. It was _warm_ in here. He had forgotten what it felt like to be warm and had to resist letting out a happy sigh. The smell of food offset the good feeling, the torturous thought that he wouldn't be able to eat until everyone else had taunting him without mercy. He'd waited this long – he could wait a bit longer. Edgar wanted to ask Yvette to try and save him some choice bits so he wasn't gnawing on bones. Technically, he could digest that sort of thing, but he preferred not too. The further removed he was from a shambling zombie the better.

Yvette took a seat near the head of the massive banquet table and motioned for Edgar to take up post behind her. Feeling quite conspicuous amongst a sea of massive, musclebound humanoids, Edgar did as he was instructed. Small as he was compared to the vrykul, there was no question that his every move would be monitored. Yvette's would as well, but he wasn't worried about her. She comported herself quite well as a villainess.

Edgar tried not to think too hard on that.

It was nice to feel his toes again.

* * *

Yvette made a show of crunching into the various meats laid out on the table before her, but it was an absent activity that she took no pleasure in. Only freshly killed flesh was of use to her, and she'd had her fill not too long ago, the evidence still plain on her ravaged face.

The vrykul had bought her story so far, and she saw no reason for them not too. With the Lich King winding up for more assaults on the whole of Azeroth, as well as mobilizing his forces on Northrend, he couldn't be in constant contact with every vrykul tribe. They had a few days at least before they had to move on, though she hoped to have moved along sooner than that. The longer they lingered, the higher the risk was that their cover would be blown.

Edgar had nearly blown it by speaking, but thankfully, servants weren't thought of as much more than furniture. In his current state, Edgar was a tacky broken lamp, and everyone seemed keen to just pretend he wasn't there. She hoped it stayed that way.

Despite the fact that her plan was going quite smoothly, she felt on edge. She had since they'd stumbled into the clearing that the baby troll had resided in. Something incomprehensible had brushed lazily against her mind, something so terrible it would have shattered a lesser mind.

Or, perhaps more accurately, a mind that had not already been shattered twice and survived.

Though it was annoying to share a common goal with Edgar, she felt the need to protect the troll child as well, to look after its well being. It was important to something greater than herself. Greater than anything she knew. Handing it off to one of the vrykul had been difficult, but it had been necessary. She'd organized more sustainable supplies for when they left, so they wouldn't have to rely on stops into vrykul villages, or even worse, bring along a wet nurse, to keep the troll fed.

Some distant part of her she couldn't quite remember had always thought trolls ate raw meat from birth. Perhaps part of her human life – as one of the Forsaken, she had known better.

All this pretension was irritating her more than normal. She barely heard the boastful stories being bellowed out, the vrykul shaking the rafters with their booming voices. Yvette was unimpressed and she did not see the need to even pretend to be otherwise. Occasionally the Chieftan would shift a calculating glare at her, but he dared not question her behavior. She was not vrykul, and as such, would not make any effort to uphold any social niceties. That she had deigned to attend the banquet was enough – she'd only done so with the purpose of looking after Edgar.

Edgar. He'd be outfitted in more suitable clothing soon, though she'd thought it too much to ask for a weapon. Perhaps she'd steal one before they left so he was able to do more than clutch the troll and simper about returning to his wife.

If he wasn't useful to her purposes, she would have seen to his quick exit from Northrend herself. Once she saw to the infant's return to more suitable candidates – _when had she gotten that idea?_ - she would dispatch him promptly.

It was lucky Yvette was no longer able to frown. Her face remained an impassive, grinning mask as she tried to remember exactly where she'd gotten the notion to return the troll child. Not to those who had abandoned it to begin with, of course, but to more... _open minded_ individuals.

The elbow of a large man next to her jostled her, though he quickly withdrew it when his skin came in contact with hers. He looked at her sharply, but did not cry out in alarm. Instead, he merely shifted further away from her, turning back to his animated story. Stirred from her reverie, Yvette saw that many vrykul were now tossing scraps to the servants.

She did the same, though she tossed more than scraps, certain no one would notice. Yvette silently urged Edgar not to _catch_ his scraps, as the others only fell upon their own food when it had landed in the dirt.

He didn't disappoint her, though he did make a discreet attempt to clean the drumstick she'd thrown him off before digging in.

Yvette only watched him a moment, absently tossing him more food when everyone seemed sufficiently distracted. The Chieftan offered her a toast then, and extended his toast to the entirety of the Scourge. Yvette accepted it, though it was not the most gracious acceptance, and half-dragged Edgar out of the banquet hall as soon as she was able. All the lively, warm bodies were making her restless and out of focus. They'd been assigned a hut earlier, and she guided him to it, practically throwing Edgar inside before following after him.

He shot her a positively mutinous glare, jaw clenched as he fought not to snap at her. The meal had renewed his vigor, and the warmth of the banquet hall was no small contribution to his state either. While he'd certainly been more pliable as a downtrodden, starving, freezing mess, he'd be more useful with some strength in his limbs.

"They should be delivering your new things shortly," Yvette told him, still using Gutterspeak. She suspected more of them knew Common than they let on, "The child will be left with the Chieftan's wife for now. I've asked for a supply of dried milk to take along and they've agreed, though it's already quite suspicious to them that we've come so far without it, and without proper transportation as well. We won't be staying long enough for them to work it out – their fear of the Lich King is keeping them in line for now."

Edgar nodded, his expression speaking the volumes he, thankfully, was keeping to himself.

"Don't do anything foolish," the Death Knight felt she needed to add, "I have everything under control."

Though he was clearly unconvinced of her statement, he nodded again and sat down on the edge of the bed. Yvette stared at him until he got up and sat on the floor, the Forsaken soldier offering her an uncharacteristically venomous stare. Uncharacteristic for him, anyway. It was a look that was quite at home on most of their kind.

Bleeding heart Edgar had likely brought up the idea to return the baby troll. That seemed like the sort of thing he would whine about. She didn't remember the conversation, but it was his sort of argument. The baby would be shunned amongst the Darkspear's, if it even survived the rest of the their trip. Yes. They'd just return it to those who _wanted _to look after it.

Edgar was watching her closely, and she turned her back to him, abruptly leaving the hut with him in it. He could enjoy the warmth while it lasted. The roaring fires seemed like futile hope to her, all but swallowed up by the bleak cold. Even the less frigid fjord had no shortage of snow.

There was a vrykul with a bundle of furs heading towards the hut and she paused, watching him approach.

"For your servant," he said gruffly, setting the bundle on the ground between them. Word was spreading fast about what it felt like to even brush her grey skin.

"Boots?" Yvette asked, crouching down to scoop the bundle up. She wouldn't take his actions as insult, enjoying his discomfort even as he played at being unafraid.

"Inside," the vrykul replied, "Your supplies are still being made ready."

"Where is the infant?"

He pointed over his shoulder and Yvette peered around him, recognizing the hut she'd seen the Chieftain's wife enter earlier.

"You can't go in there," he added, unease finally creeping into his voice, "Only the Chieftain and his wife's handmaidens may."

"If that is where the infant is, then it is where I will go."

"It is not a place for dead things," he protested more adamantly, thick hand grasping the hilt of a wicked axe. It was well worn but lovingly maintained. He was in all likelihood quite good with it.

Yvette knew that she was better.

"Will your duty impede mine?" she asked. Though his voice was tinged with fear and anger, hers maintained a hollow, monotonous pitch. Yvette knew it only made her more terrifying, that her threats needed no further garnishing to make them serious. She relished the vrykul's discomfort, staring up at him with eyes that glowed even in the afternoon sun.

"The Chieftain will hear of this," the vrykul blustered, snarling at her and whirling to stalk away. Yvette watched him go a moment before dumping the parcel he'd delivered inside, startling Edgar with her abrupt return.

"Put these on," she said before exiting just as quickly as she'd entered, heading off to the hut she'd been pointed too.

Though it was one of the smaller buildings, it was clearly an important one the way such intricate carvings had been tooled into the outer support beams and any otherwise naked piece of wood. Yvette paused to inspect the drawings, noting the superstitious nature of them. Protective pictograms and phrases, meant to ward off evil spirits.

They didn't seem quite up to snuff when she stepped into the warm house, her entrance sending a cool gust of air inside.

The Chieftain's wife – Belgaran was her name, she'd learned earlier – looked up from where she was nestled on a sea of furs and cushions and twisted an ugly glare at her. She was currently nursing her own baby, having passed the troll off to one of her handmaidens. There were three of the handmaiden's, two attending to Belgaran while the third bathed the troll. Since the child was no longer screaming, Yvette thought it was safe to assume she'd been fed.

"You aren't allowed in here, Cursed One," Belgaran scowled, putting a protective hand on her infants head, "This is not a place for dead things!"

"That one is mine," Yvette said, moving forward and letting the wind slam the door shut. The loud bang made the handmaiden's jump, but the Chieftain's wife was made of sterner stuff.

The troll baby spluttered when her bather dunked her under the water, waggling her arms and kicking her feet, the water taking a rusty tinge as the dried blood came off of her light blue skin.

Belgaran snorted.

"You did not bathe her or feed her. I have. She is no more yours than the wind or the sky," the vrykul woman said imperiously. Like her husband, and unlike the man who had delivered her furs, she did not even seem familiar with the concept of fear. For now.

"The child belongs to the Scourge. I have come to ensure it is treated with the proper respect," Yvette said. It was quite curious to her, how brave Belgaran was in her presence. How often had these vrykul already dealt with the Scourge? Perhaps she had overestimated their time frame here.

Belgaran narrowed her eyes, taking Yvette's statement as insult, but she was distracted when one of her handmaiden's gasped. Her own eyes widened as the woman hastily directed her mistresses attention to the strange mark on the troll's ankle.

She marshaled herself a moment later, knowing that it was too late to cover up her reaction, and only patted the hand maiden on the shoulder. The younger woman continued to bathe the troll, expression now fearful instead of mildly disgusted.

"What?" Yvette asked. She felt a prickle of alarm goad her, and the urge to snatch the baby troll and run attempted to overpower her. Only the fact that such an urge was beyond ludicrous prevented her from acting on it.

"The child has an unusual mark," Belgaran said. Where before the air had merely been thick with pride and disdain, now it was charged with tension and fear. A drastic reaction to a small mark on a baby troll.

"A tattoo," Yvette replied, "Trolls are savage creatures."

"I see," the vrykyl matriarch said, narrowing her clear blue eyes with great suspicion, "She will be seen too, Cursed One."

Yvette didn't much care for her wording, but short of killing all of them (_how easy it would be_) she could not expect much more from the conversation.

"I will check again later," Yvette said. Without further talk, she turned and left, standing idly in the snow a moment before returning to Edgar. Though she looked single minded in her task, Yvette took careful note of the glowering vrykul men that had taken up casual positions near Belgaran's house as well as the hut she and Edgar were residing in.

Edgar looked more than a little ridiculous in the vrykul clothing. They were far too big for him, but he was making due, the scrawny Forsaken practically drowning in the voluminous furs. His expression was almost good natured until he saw Yvette, her presence causing his good humor to flee. It was replaced by apprehension, and she saw him wrestle with his self control as the urge to question her gnawed away at him.

"The child is safe," she told him, "But we will not be welcome here much longer. They know something about it that we don't."

His face drew into an uneasy scowl and he made an frantic gesture with his hands, urging her to say more.

"The mark on its ankle," Yvette said, "That was all that was apparent. There is more I must attend too. Don't leave this hut."

Yvette stood and left, and though she took note of the frustrated noise Edgar exhaled, she paid it no mind.

* * *

Tempting as it was, Edgar did not give in to the urge to throw something at Yvette's retreating back. Aside from the fact that it was an insane things to contemplate, the way her runeblade seemed to _glare_ at him from its perch on her back was more than enough to dissuade him from acting on the urge.

She'd been frustrating before, fair enough, but the fact that he couldn't even ask her what was going on was making her seem even more infuriating. What did she mean by what she'd said? Should he be making ready to bolt at a moment's notice? That was hardly something he needed to be warned of – it wasn't as though he had anything to carry, though he'd have to do some more modifying of his vrykul furs if he was going to have any hope of running. They'd made some passing attempt to 'tailor' the clothes to his smaller stature, but the effort had been minimal and they would have fit a tauren better than they fit him.

Edgar tried to distract himself from the frustrating position he was in. What would Anne say, if she saw him waddling around in vrykul furs? He closed his eyes, picturing her look of disbelief and her laughter.

_Do I even want to know?_ She would say, mirth sparkling in her luminous amber eyes. He wouldn't even bother answering, he was sure. He would be too busy kissing her like he was a starving man and she was a piece of chocolate cake.

There was no way he was going to just sit here, cozy as it was, and wait for Yvette to screw everything up by being an unreasonably terrifying... thing. It certainly sounded to him that she did _not _have everything under control.

He'd seen how the other servants had scurried about underfoot, going about their business quickly and quietly. So long as he stayed out of the way, there was no reason he couldn't do his own scouting. It wasn't as though he was a helpless civilian – he was a soldier, damn it. He'd be damned if his stories when he got of this consisted of '...a_nd I hid behind a rock while Yvette did all the work_'.

She would be angry with him, but she hadn't killed him yet, and he didn't think she was able to touch the baby without doing serious damage to her. So he had a sort of built in usefulness.

_This is stupid and you know it_, he thought grimly, poking his head out of the hut. Nobody so much as glanced at him and he slid out in front of the hut, tense, ready to duck back inside at the first sidelong look.

He'd already been established as a mute, however, not to mention that fact that he was ignorant of their language. Though he wasn't terribly fond of clichés, ignorance being bliss seemed to be a fair assessment of his current situation.

Edgar skulked around the village, hoping he wasn't overplaying his part as shambling servant with a worm-eaten brain. He bumped into things, he stared off at what looked like nothing for a few minutes at a time, and in generaly did his best to wander aimlessly.

At least half the village was heavily armed guards, though he wondered if 'guards' was an accurate term for them. Nearly all of the men seemed to be warriors of some variety. All the servants in the banquet hall had been women, but they weren't regulated exclusively to a lower social standing. For every five men that glowered out at the fjord, there was a woman also, though they seemed to take to archery instead of martial weapons. From what he could tell, anyway.

He passed a few buildings that seemed to house artisans, colorful rugs and finely made clothing displayed in the windows. There was a smithy as well, and a few other buildings he wasn't quite certain about.

Edgar really wanted to check in on Tegan, to make sure she was all right, but if Yvette had already done so there was no way he'd be allowed in without even being able to ask permission.

He shuffled his way back to the smithy after idling around what seemed to pass for town square, deciding to shamble through some alley's. Edgar hoped his careful attempt at appearing chaotic wasn't painfully obvious to everyone.

Between buildings, he heard loud voices in front of him and shrank against the alleyway, attempting to blend in with an abandoned stack of logs.

Even motionless he felt painfully conspicuous, only one amber eye peeking out through his furs. At the other side of the alley were two vrykul. In public or in private, it seemed, they much preferred scowling to any other expression. To be fair, they would be a great deal more unsettling if all they did was smile.

Edgar strained to listen to their conversation, which had faded into hissed whispers after the initial outburst. He realized after a few minutes that listening to a conversation in a language he couldn't hope to understand was a bit foolish, and instead focused on their faces. One of them looked concerned, while the other seemed merely angry, which Edgar took as him being _un_concerned.

Frustrated, the concerned vrykul made a gesture that sent a chill through Edgar's body despite his layers of furs. He picked up a foot and tapped his ankle, making excitable gestures with the other. That seemed to finally move the other and his frown deepened, making his facial hair bristle.

They exchanged more hushed conversation, and the more agitated vrykul brandished a sword, shaking it aggressively in the air, his intent quite clear.

His companion shook his head and put a placating hand on the other man's wrist. He made what Edgar realized a moment later was not a grimace, but an imitation of Yvette's face, clawing the air with his fingers to imitate claws.

The agitated vrykul made a rather universally rude gesture in response and spat on the ground. His friend spat as well, agreeing with the assessment of Yvette if nothing else. Edgar felt a smirk pull at his lips – she was about as personable with the vrykul as she was with him, was she? He didn't feel so left out, now.

Even so, the gesture to the ankle had been very obvious. Something about Tegan had set them on edge, perhaps even more so than Yvette herself. That wasn't good. If these two men were discussing it, who else knew? He didn't think he was terribly close to the home of the Chieftain's wife where he was. Like any small community, news likely traveled faster than the wind.

The less agitated of the pair said something reassuring to the other, clapping him on the shoulder and moving away. Edgar stayed completely still, watching the remaining vrykul scowl down at his weapon. The Forsaken didn't like the look for resolve on his face at all. Whatever reason he had for being so offended by Tegan, he was seriously contemplating using his sword to answer the insult.

_Just go home_, Edgar urged him, _It's not worth pissing off the Scourge, is it?_

He had no doubts that an unarmed vrykul woman could break every bone in his body without much trouble, but weapons made things different. Besides, he _wasn't _after the women looking after Tegan, was he? He was after the defenseless baby troll. They would probably be happy to hand her over, judging by what Yvette had told him.

Did this mean they at least suspected Yvette's deception? Had they known all along?

The vrykul muttered something to himself and stalked down the alley Edgar was crouched in, his intent clear in his eyes. Edgar felt panic well up inside of him. The man was so focused on his task, he hardly had time for a lump of timber and furs. He was going to walk straight past him.

Edgar couldn't help it. He couldn't count of Yvette to be there in time to defend Tegan, and seeing as she still referred to the baby as 'it', it was doubtful she was even nearby.

His chances weren't great, but he'd be damned if he didn't at least try. Edgar lunged at the towering viking from behind, striking at the backs of his knees in attempt to knock him down. First and foremost, he needed the sword.

The vrykul snarled in surprise, stumbling into the pile of lumber and sending it skittering all over the narrow alley. Much to Edgar's chagrin, however, he did _not_ fall. He didn't even crouch onto one knee – Edgar just hadn't hit him hard enough.

Turning in the cramped quarters, the vrykul made a grab for him and Edgar ducked. Normally he would have evaded the grab with room to spare, but he'd forgotten to compensate for his layers and layers of furs. The Forsaken grunted as he was yanked upwards by the furs, struggling madly to free himself from whatever the vrykul had grabbed. Was it the hood? The shoulders? _Fuck-!_

Saying something in his coarse language, the vrykul narrowed his eyes in recognition and poked him with the point of his sword. Edgar couldn't believe how strong he was, holding him up like he weighed nothing! In the back of his mind, he reasoned that he probably weighed about as much as a vrykul child. Though he was about as tall as a normal human, there was considerably less... meat. Not even the furs could compensate for his lack of mass.

Struggling and snarling, attempting to at least keep up his act as 'feral idiot', Edgar hoped desperately that they wouldn't attract any attention. If this vrykul was dissuaded from his murderous errand, so be it, but he couldn't afford to be under suspicion.

Perhaps tapping into Edgar's fears, the vrykul turned to look over his shoulder, taking a deep breath, as though he intended to call out for assistance.

_Oh, this isn't happening_, Edgar thought frantically, grasping the vrykul's thick wrist with both hands. Heaving himself into the kick, Edgar swung his legs up and stomped on the vrykul's throat as hard as he could.

That, he hadn't been expecting, and he gagged, clutching his throat in favor of holding onto his sword, his other hand dropping Edgar like a hot pan. Edgar rolled forward and grabbed the sword, stabbing it up into the vrykul's ribs without a second thought. He'd only realized what he'd done until the warm, red liquid started to flow out around his hands – he'd buried the blade all the way to the hilt.

Gurgling, the vrykul slumped over, eyes wide in shock. He made a few clumsy grabs at Edgar but the Forsaken had already pulled away, pressing his body up against the opposite wall of the alley, breathing heavily.

Now he'd done it. He'd just murdered someone. Not e_ntirely _in cold blood, but it was a lot different than cutting someone down on the battlefield. Edgar swallowed hard and looked down at himself, grimacing at the amount of blood staining his furs.

"That isn't helping," a hollow voice spoke, making him yelp, practically jumping out of his skin. Edgar glared at Yvette in a mixture of disbelief and fear – how long had she been there!? Had she even really left?

"He was going to kill Tegan," Edgar insisted.

Yvette was already crouching down next to the twitching vrykul – even as it bled out, it seemed reluctant to just _die_. She shooed Edgar away a little, and he watched in morbid fascination as she laid her hands on the body. Instead of healing the large man, or finishing him off, she began to... decompose him. While he was still half alive.

The vrykul tried to cry out but she cut him of with an almost absent gesture, snapping his neck with one smooth motion of her hand. Soon, the only evidence there had even been a man at all was an unpleasant smell and a pile of unidentifiable sludge.

Edgar had known Death Knight's wielded terrible power, but this... he wished he hadn't watched. He didn't even realize how horrified he was until Yvette attempted to put a steadying hand on him.

"Don't you touch me!" he said shrilly, putting up his hands in defense and batting Yvette's hand away.

"I've cleaned up your stupid mistake," Yvette said harshly. There was irritation in her tone, and that was somehow more awful than her usual emotionless monotone, "We should fetch the child and leave now before he is missed."

"What did you just _do?_" Edgar hissed. Something about what she'd done had shaken him to his very core. It had been so universally _wrong_.

"Bought us time," Yvette snapped, "Come."

She stalked past him, back towards the main thoroughfare, catching his arm and dragging him on her way past. Edgar tried to dig in and resist, but some small part of him that wasn't overcome with terror eventually unlocked his knees. He stumbled after her, and by the time they were back in the alley, he swallowed his gibbering and focused on breathing.

So, she'd _melted_ another humanoid. She'd done so with purpose, so that wasn't entirely bad, right? It had been in his defense, though if she'd been watching him since he'd left the hut, she could have acted in his defence quite a lot sooner.

He'd stabbed a man in the belly for a deadly motive he could only guess at, and then Yvette had turned him into quivering goop.

_I hate this place_, he thought furiously, somewhat possessed with the urge to laugh at his own thoughts. What an absurd thought, considering what he'd already been through in just a few days. _ Now_ he hated it here? After all of that?

There was a loud bang as Yvette shoved open a door and Edgar looked up as warmth washed over them. This building was far more well appointed than even the banquet hall had been, the walls draped with brightly colored tapestries, the floors covered in rugs and furs.

A female voice shouted out angrily, and he recognized the woman who had taken Tegan earlier. The baby troll herself was silent, eyes wide, startled by all the loud noises. A different woman had a hold of her, though she wasn't holding her terribly close, as though she was loathe to keep the baby any closer to her than necessary.

Yvette spoke with the vrykul women cooly in their own language, pointing to Tegan emphatically, and then to himself.

The woman holding Tegan looked torn, glancing between her mistress and Yvette, unsure of what to do. Edgar wondered if him holding out his arms would make things better or worse. Probably worse. It would be better if no attention was drawn to him and his bloodied furs. He certainly hadn't received them in their current state. Glancing at Yvette he noticed that she'd taken the fallen vrykul's sword with her, fresh blood running down her armored thigh where it dripped from the blade.

He wasn't the only one who noticed the blood, either, and the matriarch said something accusational, pointing at Yvette. Edgar tensed, expecting a violent retaliation, but the two women just stared each other down. Though the vrykul woman's resolve was impressive, it seemed to finally dawn on her just what it was she was staring down. She paled slightly, and though she didn't immediately look away, she said something urgent to the woman holding Tegan.

The woman started to protest, but a harsh word from her matriarch quickly set her on the right path. She stood, shivering in spite of the warmth inside the house, and quickly wrapped Tegan in some thick furs. Shortly after, she offered the bundle to Yvette, and Edgar took it quickly, looking down at Tegan to make sure she was all right.

Oblivious to everything going on around her, Tegan cooed and wriggled at Edgar, though he was certain it would have been impossible for her to recognize him already. Even so, he tried to offer her a thin smile. She had absolutely no idea how much trouble she was.

Yvette gripped his shoulder to get his attention and nodded for the door, shoving him in front of her. She didn't speak until they were outside, and she took the lead then, not paying any of the vrykul outside any heed.

"We're leaving," she said.

"Now?" Edgar said, not caring if he was blowing his cover. He was fairly certain she'd already done so inside.

"I organized our things already," Yvette said, "We should get to them before they kill us for bringing an ancient omen of death into their village."

Edgar blinked and glanced down at Tegan. She couldn't mean the _baby._ Perhaps they merely found Yvette offensive. That would certainly make more sense.

A door burst open behind them, and Edgar didn't need to turn around to guess who it was that was shouting after them. Yvette picked up her pace as the voice of the Chieftain's wife rang out in the cool air. Shouting stirred up behind them and Yvette broke into a run. Edgar found it difficult to keep up, bogged down by his ill fitting furs as well as his desire to keep a firm grip on Tegan.

They turned a corner, towards what he assumed were the stables, and let out a small gasp. He'd been so fixated on the ground that he hadn't noticed the massive fortress looming far off in the distance. It seemed perfectly framed between the larger, more official buildings of the village and the roof of the stables.

If that weren't enough, in front of the stables was the most bizarre looking... dragon... _thing_ he'd ever seen. It was making quarrelsome noises at its handler, massive jaws snapping at him as he attempted to flank it and get a saddle on it.

They weren't... they weren't going anywhere on_ that_ were they?

And if they weren't, the vrykul were going to be able to catch up with them quite easily.

Shouting was closing in behind them, and Yvette actually looked over her shoulder and hissed ferally at him. It was a distinctly inhuman sound, and he found himself scrambling to keep up just to avoid having to hear it again.

The vrykul wrestling with the ornery dragon didn't so much as glance at them as they stalked past, into the stables. It stank inside. Badly. Whatever these creatures ate, he supposed, it didn't smell that great on the way out.

"Here," Yvette said crisply, undoing the latch to a smaller pen that didn't have a padlock on it. Edgar winced, clutching Tegan protectively, but inside was... it looked like an overblown Talbuk. Its antlers seemed to be merged into a flat, back-curving shovel, and he wouldn't even get started on the tusks.

"You're joking," Edgar said flatly, even as the creature snorted at them, stamping a hoof as it chewed idly on its cud, "How are we going to outrun a dragon on one of these?"

"We won't need too," Yvette assured him, checking the creature's load before grabbing its harness and giving it a firm tug. The creature grunted, but even it was disinclined to try Yvette's patience, moving forward ponderously.

"Oh? Does it breathe fire?" he said. Edgar felt himself getting angry again, wondering just what the hell _else_ she wasn't telling him, "Maybe it's got a built in catapult? It's certainly big enough!"

"If you don't shut up, I'll rip out your tongue," Yvette said. She spoke so casually that he almost laughed. Her words sank in after a moment, however, and he swallowed, going silent. The dead certainty in her tone suggested that she hadn't been joking.

Edgar instead focused on not retching at the terrible smell inside the stables. For a place filled with weird cow monsters and misshapen dragons, it was awfully quiet.

He placed the smell a moment later. It wasn't of feces, but of something _rotten_. Something _dead_. Edgar drew Tegan tighter as he peered into a stall they passed in alarm.

Dead. Everything in the stable, except their own cowthing and the dragon the vrykul out front was working with was dead.

How!? How had she done that already, in such a short span of time!? They'd been apart.. what? Perhaps an hour?

Part of him felt like he was being sucked into a sort of dark vortex by just _accepting_ these things as they played out. If he didn't start protesting soon, he'd become a hollow, unfeeling monster just like her.

Outside, he gulped in the fresh air, noting that the vrykul had finally saddled the drake. He was looking between them and the approaching, angry crowd. It didn't take an idiot to guess who an angry mob might be after and he fingered the drakes reins idly.

"Up," Yvette commanded, swinging herself up behind the creature's massive antlers. Edgar climbed up clumsily, Yvette yanking him up the rest of the way, and he nearly dropped Tegan in the process. She was confident in his ability to hang onto her, at least, because as soon as he was on she urged the beast to turn and head out.

He was no expert on the geography of Northrend by any means, but Edgar could have sworn they were heading back into the snowy expanse they'd only just emerged from earlier in the day. Yvette was in no mood for his observations, however, so he kept them to himself. The cover of the trees would help them avoid mutant dragons if nothing else.

The creature was surprisingly fast when it got going, thundering over the frozen earth towards the tree line. Behind them, the uproar of the vrykul was still audible, and a reptilian screech made his heart leap into his throat.

There was no way they would outrun a dragon, no matter how fast this lumpy beast was. Unhappy with how tightly she was being clutched, Tegan began to cry, and Yvette shot a murderous look over her shoulder... past him and up into the air.

Edgar followed her gaze, not terribly surprised to see the aggressive splotch of red screaming overhead. The drake was still wrestling with its rider a little, but it took little urging for it to swoop lower and try to spill them over.

Suddenly Yvette's runeblade was out, blue fire bursting into existence along the long blade, and the drake pulled up short, climbing back into the air, refusing to follow through. Even in the confusion Edgar could hear the vrykul swearing, and he hoped that meant they were about to get away scott free. He looked around frantically, twisting in his seat, but froze when a solid '_thwip!_' impacted in one of their mounts saddlebags.

"Oh, _come on_," Edgar muttered, flinching as another impacted, closer.

He was aiming for Edgar. Or, perhaps more specifically, the baby.

"Yvette-!"

Even as he turned to the Death Knight for help, she flung herself off of the charging beast. Without the menacing presence on its back, the creature seemed less inclined to head for the trees, tossing its head and snorting as it slowed down. Edgar desperately tried to urge it back into action. Was it really that unafraid of the dragon circling overhead!? It made sense that it might at least be desensitized to the smell of them but...

_Fuck this place _and_ it's animals_, he thought mutinously, turning in his seat to see what Yvette was doing. He blinked and leaned forward a little, certain he was seeing things wrong.

She was just... standing there. There were arrows sticking out of a few well-aimed shots at gaps in her armor, runeblade glittering cheerfully in the afternoon sun, but otherwise she was motionless, face upturned as she watched the vrykul circle.

He'd forgotten about Tegan for the moment, at least, and was snarling orders at his drake. Smoke trailed out of its nostrils and it clicked in Edgar's mind, what the vrykul was trying to do. Trying to get it to incinerate the Death Knight.

Had he hit her off button with an arrow? Did Death Knight's have some sort of mysterious weak spot you could hit to render them immobile?

As he watched, the vrykul dipped his drake lower, perhaps trying to let natural instincts take over. A little lower. Low enough that a well aimed rock throw could've hit him.

Ropes of shadow burst from Yvette's hand as she thrust it upwards, the ends of the shadow tendrils splitting into greedy, grabby fingers and digging into the unsuspecting vrykul. She grasped the tendrils and yanked them back, angling her runeblade straight up as she did so.

The vrykul barely had time to shout in alarm as he was pulled from his mount, impaled on the runeblade a moment later. Even from the fair distance away Edgar heard the sickening _crunch_ and _splat _as the man's ribs and guts gave way to the wicked sword.

Yvette waited a moment, watching the drake whirl in the air a bit, startled at its newfound freedom before winging away with a triumphant bellow. She shoved the vrykul off of her sword easily and began to trudge back towards Edgar.

Only a few days ago, her armor had been a gleaming blue-black, polished to a high shine. Now it was spattered with blood, blood that she left trailing behind her, bits of vrykul sliding off as well as she pulled arrows out of her flesh. By the time she reached their mount again, Edgar was speechless again. It was for the better, he decided. He much preferred to keep his tongue in his mouth.

* * *

Using her unholy abilities was one of the few things that gave Yvette a feeling close to pleasure. To feel flesh rot and rend beneath her mere touch, to watch the life bleed away from something – true beauty, she had come to appreciate, was only found in death. Living things were only capable of one thing, in the end. Dying.

Only when they ceased to be alive could they truly be beautiful. There was a perfection in death, a certainty that was undeniable.

She savored the hot blood as it dried on her skin, ignoring Edgar as she pulled herself back up onto the shovel tusk and urging it forward again. Edgar had performed admirably, though she'd had her doubts at first. She'd been angry at his betrayal, his presumption that she needed his help beyond holding the infant. Yvette had been especially irate when he'd attacked the unruly vrykul, but really, she'd done all she could there. They had been on borrowed time, and he had accelerated their timetable acceptably. If they hadn't of left then, there was a chance that someone would have noticed the terrible smell from the stables before they were ready.

Their only peruser had been granted a glorious death. His clansmen would sing about him in their banquet hall tonight. She had done him a favor. His death had been efficient. Quick. _Beautiful_.

_Antoine did not die beautifully_, something hissed in a foggy corner of her brain. The thought soured her mood instantly and she drove the shovel tusk harder, gripping the reins so tightly the leather creaked in protest.

Though she could feel Edgar twisting in his seat, craning his eyes skyward, looking for more pursuers, she knew she'd done her job well. The vrykul would not pursue them. If they knew what was good for them, they wouldn't even mention it to their Scourge superiors. They would lie about their stables and only whisper of the terrible deeds the death omen had brought them.

Yvette could feel Edgar's unease, his distrust. When he looked behind them, he wasn't just checking to see if they were being followed. He was trying to silently hint that they were going the wrong way.

Vengeance Landing was indeed in the opposite direction, through heavily fortified Winterskorn territory. The village they'd just escaped from had only been a small one – a large village was bound to be more militant, more closely knit, and far less likely to fall for a story of such dubious origin.

It had been Edgar's idea, anyway, to return the troll.

Hadn't it?

_Yes, of course,_ another voice soothed. She didn't recognize it entirely. Most of the whispers in her head were from within. This voice... she didn't quite understand it.

She turned her head slightly until she was able to see Edgar in her peripheral vision. He was acutely aware of her and stopped moving, idly fussing with Tegan to assuage his nerves. Yvette opened her mouth to ask him, but clacked her teeth together and looked forward again.

_No need to ask him_, she (_it wasn't her_) thought. The Death Knight shook her head, trying to clear her muddled thoughts. Some of them didn't seem to belong to her. Part of her fretted that it was some tendril, some hook the Lich King had left in, tauting her with her freedom only to yank it away again, but it was not quite so plain as that. It was something insidious, something breeding in the dark corners of her mind and grabbing hold, squeezing _her_ reins when she started to do something wrong.

What had she thought before? It was something bigger than her. Something ancient and deep and _horrible_.

Something to do with the baby troll Edgar had clutched to his chest.

Despite her previous traumas, Yvette could recall a great deal with certain clarity. Now, though, as she thought hard to even recall the previous day...

It didn't matter, did it? So long as the child was delivered safely, everything would be fine. This was the right thing to do.

The forest closed in around them, and it seemed even the trees were fearfully silent.

Yvette spared some time wonder if it were possible to feel herself going mad.


	4. Chapter 4

'Herding cats' had always struck Anne as a ridiculous phrase. It was a common enough cliché, but really, just picturing someone foolish enough to think they could herd a cat, let alone _multiple_ cats made her shake her head. No one was actually stupid enough to try, though she supposed that was the point of the saying. To illustrate just how impossible someone was to control.

It was an exaggeration of epic proportions, and she'd never been a fan of making things out to be more excruciating than they actually were.

Just now, Anne was certain this particular group she had in her home embodied the cliché without the slightest bit of exaggeration. Ivan and his twin brother Igor had showed up bickering, and neither of them had brought cold weather gear, assuming their Forsaken biology would be enough to combat the freezing cold. So, she'd sent them out to _get_ some gear, and they had yet to return even as the afternoon wore away into the evening.

Anne half expected to find them strangling each other in an alley, since she was definitely going to have to go looking for them soon.

Shalar'zahn and Murdok had started out well enough. They'd been happy to ignore each other, and with Anne close by to supervise their packing, they had enough to keep them cozy in Northrend.

When Anne had left them in charge of organizing rations, both trolls had seemed game to work together on the task. She'd left to see just how dearly the zeppelin was going to cost her, and now that she'd returned, she found that they'd accomplished absolutely nothing at all.

Anne looked up at the ceiling a moment, a habit she'd developed in attempt to avoid making irritable faces at her good natured husband, hiding her irate expression until she could school a more polite one.

"What's the problem?" she asked after an impatient sigh. Of course, she'd have attended to this herself if she'd had the time. The whole _point_ of assigning tasks had been to get multiple jobs seen too at once.

She'd just handed over all of her savings, and that was just the up front fee. Anne owed them more once they arrived at Vengeance Landing. Ivan would have to cover that, something she needed to discuss with him... if he were here, and not out somewhere in the city arguing with his twin.

"Dis' idyot bought not'in but-"

"Yah di'int say not'in specific-"

"Whatchoo_ t'ink_ we need in Nort'rend, mon!?"

"Please," Anne interjected, "What's the problem?"

"Half da rations – _'is _half! - be perishables!" Shalar'zahn scowled. Murdok glared back at her, and Anne imagined she could see lightening bolts crackling between the two of them. If this was how they acted in pairs, how was it going to be when they were in one big group?

"That's all right," Anne sighed, "If we don't eat them all before they go bad, myself, Igor and Ivan can eat them. We'll just have to be very cautious in our rationing is all."

"Not like we goin' tah be dere vereh long," Murdok commented, looking to Anne for support.

"A few weeks at the most," she agreed quietly, "If we don't find anything."

Shalar'zahn continued to fume anyway, now angry that she'd been wrong about thinking Murdok had made a terrible mistake.

"Do either of you know where the twins are? Have they been back at all while I was gone?" Anne said. At least the two trolls were intent on seeming like the better person to her, one upping each other in agreeableness That wasn't at all the case with the brothers, who had more unresolved issues than Anne cared to fathom.

"Dey haven't," Murdok shook his head, "Prolly got arrested fah makin' a scene."

"I was thinking along those lines," Anne frowned, "At least I've secured passage for us. First thing in the morning, we're leaving, ready or not. They've started to pre-load the zeppelin – will the two of you help me get that rolling? Please?"

She added the please quickly, knowing how much trolls balked at being ordered around. The two of them grumbled, still glaring daggers at each other, but they did not voice any protests.

"Throw in anything you don't feel like carrying tomorrow morning," Anne suggested, picking up her own satchel. The ex-soldier had honed the art of light packing, but the fact that she was partially dead did cut down on a great many items that might otherwise be essential to the living.

Shalar'zahn, for example, had stuffed a great deal of things Anne considered of questionable value into no less than three buldging bags. What she could possibly need a dead, stuffed snake for would probably always be a mystery to the Forsaken woman.

Ivan and Igor... Igor hadn't even packed a bag, quietly assuring her that he had everything he needed. Ivan... oh, where did she even_ begin_ with him? Setting aside the fact that he'd packed a bag for _Makenzie_, he'd packed books. Books wasn't even a good word to describe the massive, musty, leather bound monstrosities he'd jammed into a threadbare satchel. No, Ivan had packed _tomes_. The sorts of things that perched on stands in libraries. Not the sorts of things you took on a trip in which mobility was an urgently important requirement.

Anne threw herself into running their supplies and gear out to the zeppelin to distract herself from thinking about her off kilter companions. This was for Edgar. The two of them would have a good laugh about all of this in a few years. Edgar had always nursed a healthy sense of humor.

She could remember the first time they'd met like it was yesterday. He always expressed how lucky he was that she put up with him, but he didn't seem to realize just how much he had improved her life.

"_Straighten up!" Anne barked, watching her new recruits struggle to straighten their hopelessly twisted spines. A humorless smile that did not even come close to reaching her eyes pulled at her lips, and she paced up and down the line of awkward men and women._

"_That's enough," she said when some of them continued to struggle, "You're not human anymore. Things are different. You're a different sort of soldier, now. Better. Stronger."_

"_Slouchier," someone spoke up._

_Anne whirled on the cheeky voice, zeroing in on it instantly. Though the speaker had been grinning, quite amused with his little quip, his expression sobered quickly when Sergeant Anne was in his face._

"_What was that, Private?"_

_Most new recruits were easy to push around and intimidate. The smart ones joined the Royal Apothecary society, or one of the many magic guilds. Craftier types became scouts or assassins. She got the dumber ones, the ones who wanted to help with the war effort but weren't terribly good at anything else._

_This one, though, seemed to have a bit of wit. What was he doing in the infantry?_

"_Slouchier, _Ma'am!_" he repeated, cringing slightly, as though unable to help himself._

_Normally she didn't stand for backtalk during her 'Welcome to hell' speech, but something about this one told her he meant no disrespect. He was one of those insufferable people who, when he saw a frown, tried to turn it upside down._

"_Keep your thoughts to yourself unless otherwise spoken too, Private. Understood?" she barked instead._

"_Yes, Ma'am!" he said crisply._

_Anne turned her back to the recruits a moment, as though gathering herself, and took a moment to smile in earnest. An army of slouchers. He made a good point._

Edgar hadn't been terribly keen to scream through the ranks like she had, but even as she clawed her way up through the military hierarchy, she found that she made time to see him. It wasn't always easy, but they'd made the time. At first it had only been him making the effort, leaving her flowers or winking at her or just... just acting _human_. She had found it unsettling at first, his charm, but when she avoided him for too long she missed the attention.

Above all, she had missed feeling like something more than a shambling automaton. Hadn't she done that enough before Sylvanas had freed her from that terrible yoke?

Though his ambition was lacking – he always expressed wanting to travel when the war was over, maybe taking up a craft – Edgar always encouraged her and supported her. Even if it meant more time away from her.

A costly trip to Northrend was a pittance compared to how he had changed her life. He had saved her from losing herself in her work, and she was eternally grateful for that. She didn't want to turn into some of the Forsaken higher-ups, consumed with their projects to the point of forsaking all others. Obsession was a common ailment amongst her people, the need to cling to something, to _mean _something, was a powerful motivator in the face of perpetual decay.

"If he be as great as yah say," Shalar'zahn spoke up quietly as they left the last of their gear with the goblins, "I t'ink he be fine."

Anne looked startled for a moment, and offered the trolless a small smile.

"Lost in thought," she apologized, "I'm sorry."

"S'all right," the troll said, "He be lucky t'have yah. He know dat?"

"He used to say so every day," Anne nodded quietly. She caught Murdok rolling his eyes in the background, wondering how much he was taking on board to use later. Anne still wasn't sure if their tension was aggressive or sexual.

With trolls, sometimes, Anne wondered if the two things were mutually exclusive.

Shalar'zahn had caught the eye roll as well, but she didn't explode into a string of Zandalari curses. There had been quite enough of those today. Anne hoped it didn't mean she was going to save them up for tomorrow.

When they returned to her home in the Undercity in relative peace, she was surprised to find that Igor and Ivan had returned, intact and without strangle marks on their necks.

Upon closer inspection, however, it was only because Ivan was too drunk to stand under his own power, and strangling his crutch would have been bad form.

There were some neatly wrapped parcels inside, at least, so they'd managed to accomplish their task. That they were neatly wrapped, however, told Anne a story she decided she'd wait for Igor to tell.

The trolls exchanged looks, Shalar'zahn making the excuse of needing a bath, while Murdok just parked himself on a sofa, waiting for the drama to unfold.

Anne just gestured to the two of them, raising her brows slightly at Igor, who looked very much like he wanted to gut his inebriated twin.

"After we spent _far_ too long packing things for Makenzie," Igor said tersely, attempting to get his brother to slump onto a chair.

"Fug' you," Ivan muttered, apparently only leaning on Igor out of pure spite.

"After that," Igor continued, pushing through the interruption, "He was _too upset_ to buy a winter coat for her. Asked me to do it. It took me hours to find him again when I got out of the shop. Face down in his succubus'... well. I had to drag him back here."

"Is this just because he's missing, er, her?" Anne asked, rubbing one of her temples idly. She didn't want to say her name and set Ivan off, though he was so drunk he probably wasn't hearing a word they said.

"It's certainly a good excuse, isn't it?" Igor snipped. He grunted when Ivan shifted his weight, slumping over more, and the priest took it as an excuse to offload him.

Ivan sprawled unceremoniously on his back with an 'oof' and a sickly groan.

"Can you wake him up?" Anne sighed, crouching down next to the warlock and patting him on the cheek, trying to keep him conscious, "I need to ask him something."

"What for?" Igor asked, quite prickly. He started to smooth and straighten out his robes, doing his best not to notice where he'd been drooled on.

"The goblins expect additional payment on arrival," Anne said, "They're calling it a 'disembarking fee'."

"That's outrageous," Igor said, scowling, "You've given them more than enough."

Anne only shrugged, "It's a trip to Northrend. It costs."

"It's criminal," insisted the priest, "We're on a selfless mission."

"They aren't, and they're the ones with the zeppelin," Anne said, "It's a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things."

Doubt gnawed at her despite her confident words. If she found out Edgar was dead, she would be jobless and without any savings whatsoever. She'd be back to where she had been when she'd stumbled out of the crypt in Deathknell.

Igor motioned her away and crouched next to his brother, putting a hand gingerly on his chest and giving him a little shake. Ivan swatted blearily at his twin, missing him by a wide margin.

"Go 'way," Ivan slurred, "M'shleepin'."

"You don't deserve this," Igor informed him, putting his other hand on his brother and concentrating hard. Anne had always thought disease was a priest's providence, but her suspicions that Igor was a tad more talented than his modesty allowed him to speak of was well founded.

Things were silent for a moment, and Ivan seemed to snap back into consciousness miraculously.

"What-!?" Ivan said, shoving his brother's hands off of him, "What did you do!?"

"Purged the poison from your system," Igor said disdainfully, taking a few steps back, slightly behind Anne, "He's all yours, Mrs. Jerrik."

"You killed my buzz," Ivan glowered, sitting up and rubbing his head sullenly, "You could have at least fixed my headache."

Anne cleared her throat, unimpressed with Ivan's theatrics, and he flicked his eyes over to her.

"What?" he snapped. They'd gotten along at first, but once she'd established herself as the defacto 'boss' of the operation, he had become increasingly difficult to deal with. Ivan, she had decided, was a rather typical Forsaken male. Ornery, disinclined to follow orders, completely full of himself and assured of his inherent greatness.

"I've paid the zeppelin crew, but they're asking for a disembarking fee," Anne repeated for him, "You offered to help pay yesterday. Is that offer still open?"

Ivan grimaced and scratched at his chin. Anne could practically hear a slimy excuse come out of his mouth, but something made him nod instead. One less reason for her to resent his presence, she supposed. She'd be thankful for that.

"We should sleep," Igor said quietly, glancing over when Shalar'zahn emerged from the bathroom. Trolls were notoriously shameless, but she had at least put on a towel on her way to her guest room. Murdok's eyes were glued to her, apparently able to see her through the walls as she moved out of sight and he continued to stare.

"I can't," Ivan said, making certain to take an immediately contrary position to his twin.

"You _can_," was Igor's right reply.

"Not without a few drinks," Ivan snarled, "Which you've ruined."

"You don't need to be drunk to get to sleep."

"Maybe_ you_ don't," the warlock said, "Without Makenzie-"

"Stop using her as an excuse!"

"Fuck you, Igor!" Ivan shouted.

"You're-"

"That's _enough_," Anne said. Though the brother's had been raising their voices incrementally, she only used her normal speaking voice, coming to stand between them, "You've both agreed to come along. Obviously you care about your friend. You can tear each other apart after the trip, but right now, I need you to focus on something more important than yourselves."

Igor looked offended, while Ivan played at being bored, picking at some loose skin on his fingers. Ivan's hands were more bone than skin – the picking was obviously a nervous habit.

"We disembark at dawn, so I suggest you get enough rest to wake up early. You can sleep on the zeppelin for all I care, but I will not tolerate this kind of in-fighting when other lives are at stake," Anne continued, "Have I made myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Igor scowled. Ivan only grunted and stood, accidentally on purpose bumping his shoulder into his twin on his way to his own guest room. Igor fumed but didn't retaliate, following after his temperamental twin.

Anne and Murdok shared a silence, and the Forsaken marveled at how the only person she really seemed to get along with was a troll who'd had a sword aimed at her belly just the night before.

"Is it always this bad?" Anne finally asked.

"Nah," Murdok said with a toothy, mirthless smile, "Was bettah wit' Makenzie."

"What, exactly, did she change?" she wondered. Though she was very eager to be reunited with her husband, Makenzie seemed to be up on a rather high pedestal amongst her peers.

"Ivan not be such an ass when he be gettin' laid," Murdok said, his coarse speaking making Anne arch an eyebrow, "Dat means he not be so mean tah his bruddah, who jest keeps tah himself."

"That simple?" she asked, rather dubious.

"Nah," Murdok grinned wider, "None a yah bid'ness, is it? S'okay. Mebbe we 'ave a few drinks 'round de fire an' spill owah deepest darkes' secrets."

"Fair enough," Anne said. Asking after the reason for his animosity with Shalar'zahn, then, was likely not on the table either, "Goodnight, Murdok. You sure you don't mind sleeping out here?"

"Slept in worse places, mon," he shrugged.

"Goodnight, then."

"Yah," he grunted, settling further down onto the sofa.

Anne thought she could hear a quiet argument being exchanged in the guest room immediately next to the master bedroom, and couldn't help a small smile. She was reminded of two young children forced to share a room. Were they arguing over who got the bed, and who got the cot?

Though she was very eager to head to Northrend, and a bit irate that they'd wasted so much time already, part of her was dreading the morning, and dreading the long, cramped flight even more.

She tried to cheer herself up somewhat, trying to imagine what Edgar might say when she found him.

_I owe you one_, he'd say slyly, _I'll do the dusting for a whole week_.

The thought didn't cheer her up at all, however, and she spent the rest of the night wishing desperately that she was still able to cry.

* * *

"_I just don't get it," Makenzie whined, tossing her reddish, curly hair out of her eyes. In life, it had likely been a vibrant puff of fire engine red. Even in it's subdued state it implied that its owner had an above average level of... ferocity._

"_What don't you get?" Igor asked patiently, pulling up a chair next to her. Makenzie was new. Freshly dug up, Ivan had joked. She had laughed. Igor hadn't._

_She'd expressed an interest in magic, in being helpful, and Igor had jumped at the chance to teach her. If she had such a strong desire to do something so soon after reawakening, then it was often a sign of latent, forgotten talent._

_Makenzie had not taken to the healing arts so quickly, however. She knew, in Igor's opinion, an unhealthy amount about the shadow arts, but tried her best to be a good student._

_Mostly, in Ivan's opinion, so she could flirt with her pious teacher's far more charming warlock brother._

"_I don't think I'm cut out for this," she groused, pouting at him. That look had Ivan practically drooling, but his idiot brother only smiled gently at her and gave her light pat on the shoulder._

"_You've only been studying for a few weeks," he said, "It takes some time to sink in."_

"_Maybe we could do the shadow arts first?" she tried to hint, leaning forward a little so that Ivan could see down her shirt. He didn't care if it was on purpose or not._

_Igor frowned, flicking a look at his layabout brother, and fingered the tome, "If that is where your interests lie, Makenzie, then perhaps you ought to take up studying with my brother. He certainly seems eager to study with _you_."_

_He slammed the book on 'you', making the other two Forsaken jump._

"_Honestly," Igor said, "Just get it out of your systems. How the two of you are still simmering in your own hormones so long after death astounds me."_

_He grabbed his book and stalked out of the room while Ivan grinned, beckoning Makenzie closer as he slid down in his seat. For a corpse, she was a looker. She still had hips, and her breasts had come out the other side of undeath all right – Ivan couldn't help but think that maybe someone had reanimated her for more insalubrious purposes than to eat brains. He wasn't complaining._

"_If you two didn't look the same, I'd never guess you were related," Makenzie said, closing the distance between them and straddling his waist. She leaned down over him, letting her hair tumbled over her shoulders, and he licked her jaw._

_Makenzie giggled and started to shake his shoulders. Ivan frowned a little – wait, this wasn't how this was supposed to go._

"_You'd better wake up, you useless lump," his brothers voice came out of Makenzie's pouty lips, "We're leaving shortly."_

Ivan cracked one eye open and slapped his brother's hands away. That had been a perfectly good sex dream that he'd just ruined. Great. What a _wonderful_ way to start the day – sober_ and_ unfulfilled.

"Are you going to stay awake?" Igor asked, taking his hands back but not standing just yet. Ivan had ended up taking the cot, if only out of guilt for clocking him the day before. It hadn't stopped him from making jokes about what a princess Igor was for insisting on the bed, however.

"Yeah," Ivan grunted, sitting up. He rubbed his face and, unable to help himself, gave his brother a shove. Somehow, after all their years as siblings, Igor didn't see it coming and staggered back onto his ass. Though Ivan grinned, Igor did not.

"Grow up," Igor suggested, getting to his feet and leaving the room. Ivan watched him go and shook his head once he was gone, standing up and stretching. He grabbed an armful of his bedding, figuring he'd just pile it in the corner, and glanced at what Igor had done. Ivan did a double take.

Igor had made his bed. Sometimes, Ivan wondered about his twin.

Once he'd felt he'd wasted enough time idling in the guest room, the warlock shuffled out into the main area, a bit disappointed that no one had cooked breakfast. They were about to set off on a big trip, and nobody was cooking? He raised his eyebrows at Shalar'zahn, and she returned his look with an incredulous one of her own.

"Yah can pick at de rations on de zepplahn, mon," she told him, "Shalar'zahn ain't cookin' not'in dis mo'nin'."

"Rations?" Ivan sighed, noting that Anne hadn't made an appearance yet. Murdok was awake but still slouched on the couch, occasionally hiding yawns behind a thick fingered hand. He'd probably slipped out to scout for rumors, or maybe he'd found something to smuggle, or some covert job... the thought irritated Ivan a little, and he was usually the enterprising sort.

They were supposed to be finding Makenzie, not doing odd jobs. Even he had been trying not to think about that fact too much. This trip was admitting a great deal. If... _when_ he was reunited with her, he'd make sure she knew just how much she meant to him. He'd even ask her to move in.

"Don't forget your coats," Igor said to his brother, pointing to the parcels laid out on the table. Ivan grunted, not filling in the ensuing silence with the 'Thank you' that Igor was rather foolishly expecting.

"T'ought Anne'd be up by now," Murdok commented, stretching his long limbs and hauling himself to his feet, "Gonna knock on her door."

He took a few steps, and stopped when the front door opened. Anne smiled at all of them and made a beckoning gesture.

Ivan still wasn't quite sure what to make of Anne. She'd given up a very prestigious position for this trip, poured all her life savings into it... for what? For one person? Did her husband really mean that much? Did his absence invalidate everything she'd achieved?

"Let's go," she said, the quiet finality in her tone making things just that much more real. They were going to Northrend.

Sorting their rides was an interesting task. Igor ended up on the back of Anne's skeletal warhorse, having a great distaste for Ivan's felsteed and for the sickening bobbing motion of Murdok's raptor. Shalar'zahn had no such qualms about the felsteed, and since Anne's horse was full (and since she disliked Murdok), she doubled up with Ivan.

Murdok bobbed along ahead of them, enjoying a much roomier ride than his companions.

"I can't believe you've never bought your own raptor, 'Zahn," Ivan commented over his shoulder, letting his felsteed bring up the rear of the pack, "Especially with how far away you live from Orgrimmar."

Though Ivan knew the trolless had a rather low opinion of him, she was still his friend, and she smirked around her delicate tusks.

"Can't believe I be flyin' up tah Nort'rend just tah help _you_," she shot back, "How come you's always be talkin' us intah dis so'tah t'ing, Ivan?"

"You know I have a heart of gold," he said in response. Shalar'zahn let out a hearty cackle and shook her head, loud enough to make Murdok crane his head around to see what the fuss was.

"I think we made him jealous," Ivan teased, yelping when the shadow hunter punched him in the small of his back. _Hard_.

"Shaddup," she growled, "Yah not as funny as yah t'ink!"

Ivan was inclined to disagree with her assessment, but didn't say so. He'd pushed her just a teensy bit too far about Murdok. Though he was doing his best to act like he didn't care, he really was curious as to why the two trolls had never made up. They'd gone from all over each other to wanting to eat the other's eyeballs almost overnight. Perhaps the flimsy reasons they'd both given had been lies to cover up a much deeper matter.

The warlock did his best not to care too much. He didn't want to end up like his poncey brother, who'd hug bunnies if given half a chance. If he was more like his brother, neither of them would be alive.

Of course, that was Igor's argument as well, although...

Nope, he wasn't going to think about it. He'd thought about it enough. His twin was an uptight stick in the mud who hadn't the foggiest idea how to enjoy himself despite his gushing about the importance of feelings, and did his best to spread his miserly misery onto everyone else in the name of the Light.

What self respecting Forsaken bought into that sort of garbage, anyway?

Makenzie hadn't. She'd only had vague notions of who and what she was at first. Even her personality had been a mystery to her, and her shy demeanor had made Igor think she'd be a natural healer. It hadn't made much sense to Ivan, and the warlock had balked at first, not wanting some irritating shrinking violet sharing their home – they had still lived together then – and bothering him.

Then he'd seen her, and his protests had immediately dried up. He'd known the moment he saw her that she was anything _but _a priestess. Though the three of them had been friends, Makenzie seemed to come back to herself more quickly when she was around Ivan.

Outsider's might've guessed that it was Makenzie switching teachers that had caused the animosity between the twins, but Igor hadn't really minded. She'd still studied with them, though per the priests request, she no longer lived with them while she was learning the warlock arts from Ivan.

She'd been a part of both their lives for quite awhile. Makenzie had acted as a sort of glue for them. Their issues with each other went back, all the way back to before they'd become Forsaken. Despite her wild temperament, she'd managed to make Ivan and Igor forget about tearing each other to pieces.

Then Outland had happened, and... damn it, he wasn't going to think about it! They were at the newly constructed zeppelin tower now, being shown through by the guards. It wasn't open to the public yet, and if it weren't for the fact that they were doing something mildly insane, Ivan would have thought the excursion exclusive. He dismissed his own steed before boarding while Anne and Murdok saw to securing their own.

Igor went directly below, but Ivan went over to the front of the zeppelin – was it bow or stern? He could never remember the right terms – and leaned on the railing, letting the wind tug at his robes. This is what he should have done a few days ago.

Even when they finally pushed off, Ivan didn't move from his position. He'd rather be lost in thought above deck than be sucked into awkward silence and terse small talk below.

* * *

Shalar'zahn did not go above deck with the others. The others had reasons too. Igor, to make certain his brother wasn't drinking smuggled spirits and teetering over the side. Anne, she assumed, to watch the countryside and eventually, the ocean, fall away beneath her, bringing her ever-closer to her lost husband.

Murdock, to get away from _her_. Since he had taken it upon himself to perform such a service, Shalar'zahn did not want to take it for granted.

Solitude was her preference, anyway. It was difficult to focus on the whispers of the spirits surrounded by idle chatter, and especially hard surrounded by people practically made of bad mojo.

Her Forsaken companions often scoffed at her power. Ivan especially took sadistic pleasure in explaining how her _primitive_ term for something was actually just a base concept for something more _civilized_.

As if twisting demons to his will was civilized. Shalar'zahn was not a shy person by any means. She had retaliated with that very argument. Though he still played at scoffing at her, the guarded respect she could see in his eyes was enough for her to let it slide. It was difficult to take Forsaken insults too seriously. They weren't whole people, after all. Shades of their former selves at most. Of course they would be driven to complete the gaping holes in their spirits, even if it meant trying to take strips off of others to patch it.

_There is a hole in _your_ spirit_, something whispered to her. Eyes closed, Shalar'zahn frowned and waved irritably at the air, as though she could dissipate what was whispering to her. Most might have considered hearing voices a sign of madness, but Shalar had long since grown used to them. Generally, they were helpful and informative.

In times like these, however, when all she had to focus on was her solitude, they were pests.

_Unlike the others, you made your hole yourself_, the spirit sighed. Shalar'zahn wasn't sure which spirit had decided to take it upon itself to lecture her, but a large part of her suspected it was her mother.

"Dat not be so strange," the shadow hunter muttered to herself, "Person who can hurt yah da most be yahself."

A few years ago, she talked to the spirits in her head so as not to disturb friends and family. After a year living apart from both, however, she'd already developed the habit of talking to the spirits out loud. There was no shame in it – they weren't imaginary voices by any stretch.

_It's different because you know how to patch it_, the spirit said. Shalar'zahn could feel it wrapping around her, trying to comfort her, to lull her into a placid state, _You know how, but you won't_.

"Ain't true," Shalar'zahn growled, resisting the spirits influence, "Anehway, I got mo' impo'tant t'ings tah t'ink 'bout. Goin' t'de roof o' da world. Ain't got time fo' dis."

The gentle (if somewhat intrusive) spirit was easy to brush away after her little speech, and Shalar'zahn opened her eyes. She pawed through one of the bags she'd packed, looking for the right focus, finding it quicker than she'd expected too. Her packing hadn't been terribly organized, closer to throwing what she'd felt was important into a bag and then rushing out the door. Anything she hadn't been immediately drawn to bringing would clearly have been of no use to her – she put her full trust in the spirits, in the powerful Loa that guided them, and they had not failed her yet.

Oftentimes, when she thought to blame them, she would quickly find that the one truly at fault was herself.

Her hand closed around something and she pulled it out, smiling to herself. There it was.

It was a cheetah femur, though that wasn't plainly obvious from looking at it. Shalar'zahn knew what it was, and that was enough. Carved into it were stylized pictures of the cheetah that had once carried the bone, scenes from its prosperous life. It had been a fierce, powerful cat, and even so long after its death she could feel its pride. It's swiftness.

Shalar'zahn closed her eyes again, holding the femur in front of her with both hands. She focused on the cheetah-spirit, admiring its strength before finally beseeching it for help. More powerful shadow hunters, like the Darkspear leader Vol'jin, addressed their sacred Loa gods directly. Shalar did not feel she had earned that right just yet, and so she had many focuses and totems that would petition for her.

She had hunted the cheetah herself, defeated it without armor or weapons, and the spirit had respected her as a hunter and as a foe. The trolless felt its spirit stretch out from its home in the bone, supplicating Legba for her as it had done for her so many times before.

Though she'd been asked before, what it was like to be in contact with one of the Loa, Shalar'zahn had never been able to put it into words. It was different for every Loa, and it was different in every encounter. The Loa gods were real entities, with their own motivations and tasks, and as such their reactions were never wholly consistent.

With Legba, Loa god of swiftness, she almost always felt a rush of impatience at first, and always took care to keep her askances prompt and brief. She presented her task, her desire that they reach their destination swiftly, and her wish that he persuade the wind for her. It was a much larger favor than she usually asked, her requests often centered on herself, and Shalar'zahn did not expect the flighty Loa to grant her request.

It didn't hurt to ask, though. Sometimes it was possible to catch the capricious troll gods in a generous mood.

Her answer came outside of herself, and rather quickly, she was surprised to find. Blinking her eyes open, she felt a grin spread over her face as the zeppelin lurched a bit. A bit of unexpected turbulence, perhaps?

Shalar'zahn kissed the cheetah femur and placed it reverently out in the semi circle of candles and paint she'd made on the wooden floor. It could sit out for a bit and watch things unfold for being so helpful.

Though she didn't want to cause undue tension, she had to see her own handiwork, and quickly pulled on her vestments before going above deck. Her first impression was that she ought to have put on some furs, the air significantly cooler in the thin air, but she didn't retreat immediately. She wouldn't be up for long.

While the goblins scurried around the deck, tightening rigging and shouting at each other, the rest of her companions were at the prow, looking out at the still-flat horizon.

Anne noticed her first – the Forsaken woman had the keen instincts of someone who had been stabbed in the back one too many times – and gave her a questioning look. Shalar'zahn moved her hands to her face, remembering that she'd painted herself as well for her communion. The greasy paint cooled rapidly in the wind rushing past her face. She'd wash it off later.

"We be cookin' now, eh?" Shalar'zahn offered, coming to lean on the railing next to Igor.

"I think you gave the crew a collective heart attack," Igor smiled, "The change in the wind was your doing, I assume?"

Shalar'zahn nodded, noting that Anne looked unconvinced. Most Forsaken weren't, until they witnessed her perform a few similar tasks. They only understood the arcane magics, but it was hard to fault them. After all, they had only been human, and humans only seemed capable of manipulating the most generic and easily accessible of the mystic energies. The Light. Demons. The arcane. Though Shalar accepted that it took some talent to master those energies, she only had real respect for her fellow shadow hunters, as well as those who walked the path of the shaman.

"I thought I heard you talking to yourself," Ivan teased, though his smirk contained no malice. It was his way of saying thank you. Igor's scowl told her that he still hadn't figured his unruly twin out, and she only shook her head.

She didn't dare glance at him, but she could feel Murdok's eyes on her. A year ago, he would've made a joke about her clothing optional communion with the spirits. He knew better now, though. He knew he'd be nursing a bruise if he made any jokes now.

Though the spirits would rather blame _her _for the tear in her own spirit, she felt that some of the blame fell to him. If it hadn't been for him, she wouldn't have had to tear that part of her to shreds just to get through the day.

Her toothy grin tightened into something more grim the longer she thought about it, and she turned to return below deck. She'd clean up the mess her ritual had left before Ivan made anymore jokes about it. She wasn't in much of a laughing mood.

"Cold?" Igor guessed, calling after her.

"Yah," she called back. Her clipped word told him everything he needed to know, more than likely.

It was Igor she got along with the most. He understood the value of solitude, and the need for ritual. Igor just tended to _understand _things all around, though he had a conspicuous blind spot when it came to his twin.

There was something to think about. The twins. They had never been terribly close, or at least, terribly kind to each other. Ivan was a bully by nature, his brother passive and prone to feeling guilty for the wrongs his twin committed. It went deep, between the two of them, and after things had melted down on Draenor it had never been the same.

The twins had always lived together, before the falling out. Even after what had happened, she had been surprised to hear that they'd split.

It was Makenzie who had written, who'd kept in contact and told her. The female Forsaken had always been a bit too far on the clueless side for Shalar'zahn to form a deep friendship with her, but they had been close enough to share somewhat private things. Even Makenzie didn't know the full story, though she had admitted it involved something before they'd become Forsaken.

It was rare, Shalar'zahn had learned, for a Forsaken to remember their past. Sometimes they might find things out, but even then it rarely sparked a true _memory_, a sincere recollection of what they'd been.

For the twins, their disagreement had been so strong that it persisted through death. That was her guess, anyway. Shalar thought that a good dose of irony would involve a woman coming between them somehow. It would certainly explain the nastiness. What _else_ did men, even brothers, have to be so furious about?

Squeezing into the small bathroom on board, Shalar'zahn regarded herself in the mirror a moment before she took off her vestments again. She'd get rid of the paint on her person, first, before cleaning up her ritual area.

It was rather routine, cleaning off the symbols, and she let her mind idle while she did so. By the time she got down to her legs, however, something startled her out of her autopilot.

She hadn't remembered drawing _that_ on her ankle.

It was cramped in the small bathroom. The goblins, though they had been commissioned to construct them for passenger transport, had obviously been unable to resist designing as much cargo space as possible. Shalar'zahn doubted a tauren had any hope squeezing into it. Even an orc would be a dubious fit. The only reason _she _fit was because her mass went upwards, not out.

To some extent. Shalar'zahn grimaced, pressing her back hard into the wall and bringing a long, musclar leg up. Her knee dug painfully into her chest, but she was able to rest a foot on the sink.

There was a mark on her ankle she hadn't remembered drawing. While it was true she let the spirits guide her when she drew the ceremonial marks, they were always things relating to the ritual. Most of her body had been covered in cheetahs, in symbols of the wind, sigils of speed and of Legba himself.

This, though... it wasn't something she'd seen before. Despite that, it struck a chord in her, one she didn't entirely understand for a moment.

It made her afraid. _Terrified_. In a sudden, frantic panic, Shalar'zahn scrubbed the mark off, part of her certain it was suddenly permanent, the evidence of some awful curse put on her by an enemy she didn't even know she had.

But it washed off, the black paint running sluggishly down the basin as the water tugged at it. Her heart was thundering in her chest, her heartbeat and ragged breathing the only thing she could hear.

What had that been!? No, she didn't want to know. That had happened before she'd even communed with the spirits. None of them had even mentioned something so... horrible? How was a simple mark horrible?

What had it even looked like? Some sort of skull. Something sinister.

Shalar'zahn quickly finished scrubbing off the paint, the cramped bathroom making her claustrophobic, and practically tumbled out of it when she'd finished. Straight into Murdok, of course, who caught her shoulders out of instinct.

"Whoa!" he said, legitimately surprised by her hasty exit. For a few more moments, she was unable to hide her spooked expression, and Murdok's brow creased slightly, "Yah see a ghost in dere?"

"Shaddup," Shalar'zahn snapped, roughly shoving away from him. Ghosts didn't scare her. She was used to them. Having no memory of drawing dark omens on her body, however, scared her a great deal.

She could feel his eyes on her even as she stalked over to her ritual area and began to hastily clean it up. With great effort, she was able to keep her hands from shaking. What had she been so scared of? It was just a drawing. It had come off easily, it hadn't hurt her, and the spirits didn't seem the least bit ruffled.

Shalar'zahn paused before she picked up the carved femur, hesitant to discover if her last thought was entirely true. Things had been quiet after she'd come out of the bathroom.

Damn it, they'd been quiet since she'd finished her ritual. She grasped the femur, felt no reaction from the spirit within it, and exhaled a sigh of relief.

_Goin' crazy a bit early, Shalar'zahn_, she smirked to herself. Those who communed with the spirits did start to lose a bit of themselves over the years. She was still young yet, she thought, to be losing her mind. It was just a little scare, was all. This was a tense situation.

By the time she'd wiped the paint off the lower deck, she felt considerably calmer. Sometimes strange things happened when you opened yourself up to outside influences. It just very rarely happened to her, so she hadn't been ready for it.

Things were tense enough, after all. She looked up at the others. Murdok was inspecting his weapons, and while it seemed like a normal activity, Murdok's weapons were his babies. He knew them inside and out, kept them in perfect condition, and he most certainly didn't need to make sure they were in good condition.

So he was trying to avoid dealing with anyone. Mostly her, she guessed, so she'd just privately appreciate his effort.

Igor was sitting quietly on the benches in the passenger area, hands folded, head bowed. Not praying, but still deep within his own thoughts. Perhaps marshaling willpower the next time he had to deal with his brother? Ivan was still above deck, thankfully. She didn't think she would appreciate his needling just now.

It was Anne who she focused on, sitting across from her in the bench area. Anne glanced up at her and gave her a small, curt nod, before going back to the scroll she was studying. Probably the map of Northrend she seemed to be constantly referencing.

Shalar'zahn imagined that unconsciously, the Forsaken woman thought she might be able to divine her husbands location if only she stared at the map hard enough. She'd told them about her previous position in the royal deathguard, and how she'd given that up for this expedition.

Part of Shalar was convinced that this was Anne's way of mourning. She couldn't really expect to find her husband, could she? Even Ivan was behaving as though Makenzie was already dead – this trip was an excuse to behave badly and make it seem like he cared. And maybe he did care, now, when it was far, far too late.

But both Forsaken were adamant and vocal about their lost lovers being alive and well. Both of them had somehow survived a Scourge attack, a zeppelin smashing into the ocean, and were traipsing around the harsh environment in no real danger. All they needed was to be retrieved, and they could all go back home and pretend none of the nasty business had ever happened.

For Anne, Shalar'zahn thought grimly, Northrend would likely become her final stop when she realized she would never find her husband. For Ivan... well. It would be a good excuse to get good and drunk for the next few years.

Too bad for Anne, really, that the only person who'd given enough of a damn to help her find her husband was the most selfish being Shalar'zahn had ever encountered.

Anne looked up again, aware she was being studied, and raised her eyebrows some.

"We gonna find out what 'appened tah him," the troll assured her gently. Shalar'zahn didn't consider herself a liar. They _would_ find out, one way or another. Unpleasant as her friends were, at least the troll had them to fall back on. Anne was all alone on this trip, and she seemed like a nice enough person. She'd certainly tolerated the lot of them very well, though some it was born more out of necessity than genuine kindness.

"I know," Anne said, offering Shalar'zahn a thin but sincere smile.

* * *

Though the trip to Northrend wasn't quite as quick as a trip from the Undercity to Orgrimmar, it came close with the constant wind behind them. Thankfully, the journey itself had been quiet. Not a blissful, gentle quiet by any means, but a departure from the earlier snarling and snapping was something Igor would be happy to accept.

They were all above deck now, the lights from Vengeance Landing stark against the otherwise unspoiled wilderness. Goblin workers waved flares on the top platform of the zeppelin tower, working against the fading light of the setting sun.

Already Igor could feel the chill wind sweeping out at them from the foreboding continent, even through the thick furs of the coat he'd donned. Anne had been right, about needing extra layers. All of them looked and felt a bit silly in their heavy layers, the trolls especially, but that first gust of wind only proved the Forsaken soldier's point.

"Do you think there's a bar?" Ivan asked. Igor tried his best not to rise to the bait, knowing Ivan had said that only to irritate him. He swallowed an angry reply, noting that Ivan let out a small sigh a moment later. His attempts at being an insufferable ass fizzled out if nobody responded to them.

"I'll see about getting our gear unloaded," Anne said, turning to the others, "If one of you wouldn't mind seeing to getting our mounts stabled? Please?"

Igor smiled a little and rose his hand. The way Anne tacked on her 'pleases' held a certain amusement for him. What was it like, to go from being Captain of the Royal Deathguard to a mere civilian? She seemed to be making the adjustment admirably, though her politeness had a stiff, forced edge to it. It wasn't an unpleasant edge, really. Just awkward.

"Thank you," she said, "The inn is there, in that building near where they're putting up the bat roost."

"A bat roost?" Ivan repeated, frowning, "What the hell is that for?"

"The war won't be won overnight," Anne said grimly, hard lines standing out on her face in the dimming light, "Digging in now will be beneficial in the long run."

Ivan was intelligent. Very intelligent, actually, and Igor suspected far smarter than he let on. Despite this fact, he seemed to try his hardest _not_ to be smart. He made reckless, poor decisions and only then would he use his gift to get himself out of trouble. It had always been like that, and the fact that they were all here in Northrend to try and find Makenzie only reinforced it.

Though most people didn't believe Ivan capable of feeling anything, Igor knew better. He knew his brother was helplessly in love with Makenzie. Ivan was so in love with her it terrified him, and so he did what he always did when he was afraid – he buried his fear under poor behavior and poorer decisions. He got louder, drunker, and more belligerent. Anything but admit he was afraid, and that gods forbid, he might need help.

Both mounts seemed relieved to see Igor, Murdok's raptor especially, the nervous creature not even snapping at him like it usually did when he tugged it forward out of the hold. Navigating the steps of the tower proved interesting, and he was glad that Anne's warhorse followed along amiably and without trouble. After he'd seen them to the stables, he paused outside of the inn, looking around at the buildings.

Much of the Forsaken structures in Azeorth were merely remnants of structures that had been there before the plague, but here, it was interesting to see what their people came up with on their own. The buildings surrounding him now were reminiscent of human structures, but more... subdued, was the first word that came to mind. Almost as if the buildings themselves would just rather not speak to each other or anyone else.

There was no faded paint or warped wood on these newly constructed buildings. Everything had been chosen carefully and concisely. One of them would likely be a lab of some sort, judging by the equipment sitting out in front of it.

"Igor, come inside!" Ivan called from the doorway of the inn. Since nobody else was looking, there was the tiniest hint of concern on his face.

Igor pulled his coat a little closer and moved towards the inn.

"It's snowing," Ivan frowned as Igor walked past him.

"It's Northrend," Igor couldn't help but shoot back. Ivan jostled him, and for the first time in a long time, Igor felt like he had a brother.


	5. Chapter 5

"I know it's not as good as what you had earlier," Edgar said, "But it's better than nothing, trust me."

Tegan made an unhappy, fussy noise and refused to accept the bottle again. She'd _almost_ considered it before, when it had still been warm, but the frigid air was quickly turning the warm liquid into sludge.

The environment was conspiring against his efforts. Tegan much preferred to stay burrowed in her furs than to expose herself to the cold. Ice troll or not, Edgar didn't think he knew enough words to adequately describe just how cold it was getting. Even trolls needed to keep warm.

It wasn't just Tegan who was uncomfortable, either. There wasn't a great deal of room on the shovel tusk's saddle, which meant he'd been sitting uncomfortably close to Yvette for extended periods of time. Maybe it was a little bit silly, but he felt like prolonged periods of close quarters with the Death Knight was causing his hair to fall out. More than usual, anyway.

That was likely easier to contribute to the stress of the past few days, however, since Tegan was completely unaffected. Not that she had much more than fuzz to lose.

He sighed and cleared his throat, trying to get Yvette's attention. When she didn't even flinch, he sighed.

"I need to heat up the bottle again," he said.

"We're not stopping _again_," Yvette replied quickly. Her response had been so quick that Edgar suspected she'd been waiting to say it to him since their last brief exchange. Is that what she thought about in their long silences? How she might reply to an infinite number of statements?

He'd be inclined to believe it, at this point. Yvette had been unsettling from the moment he'd met her, but since the crash she'd seemed off balance, like something had been knocked loose. Maybe she was always like this, though. It wasn't as if they were old friends.

"If she doesn't eat now, she's going to scream about it later," Edgar said. He'd gone beyond frustration with her stubborn, cold manner and slipped into a sort of resigned calm and patience. Had she always been this way, or had it been her second death and reanimation that had brought out this behavior?

"We've already wasted enough time," Yvette growled, turning her head so she could glare at him balefully with one eye, "As if we weren't easy enough to track already."

Edgar offered her an incredulous look, "We're not riding the stealthiest creature in the world. I don't think soiled diapers have added much to that."

Her glare hardened and Edgar found he could no longer hold her gaze. He looked down at the fussy troll instead, who was regarding him with a scrunched up, unhappy face.

"The screaming's on you, then," Edgar said, adjusting his grip on the troll.

"I had no _choice_ but to kill him," Yvette snapped suddenly. Edgar looked up in alarm, the Death Knight's wild eyes turning his spine into cold liquid.

"I meant... I meant the baby, Yvette. Tegan," he said quickly. His voice managed to go up a register in terror, despite it being ground down into gravely pulp in undeath.

Yvette blinked once, and in an especially unsettling display, clicked her teeth together as though she were gnawing on something. She faced front, and Edgar could hear the leather reins creaking as the clutched them. What had_ that_ been about? Clearly she'd been thinking about more than just terse replies to probably conversation.

"Yvette...?"

She yanked hard on the reins and the shovel tusk grunted in protest, coming to a lurching stop. It tossed its head, attempting to loosen Yvette's grip, and she turned halfway around in the saddle to stare directly back at Edgar.

"_What?_"

"Thank you for... stopping...?" Edgar said. Tegan squawked as he squeezed her too tightly and he relaxed his grip, quickly sliding out of the saddle. His boots (he definitely owed her for the boots) made a solid crunch in the knee high snow and he started to look around for some uncovered brush or a scrap of ground. They were becoming more and more scarce the further... _along_ they traveled. Edgar had his doubts that they were heading South, though. It wasn't as frigid along the Southern coast, certainly not where Vengeance Landing was settled. How could he question her when she was practically ripping out his lungs through his mouth?

Finally, he found a pathetic patch of scrub poking through the snow, and marshaled himself a moment before he began a maneuver that already had a nickname.

The _How The Hell Do I Make A Fire In Northrend While Holding A Baby Troll_ Maneuver.

He'd only have to do it twice so far, but he thought he'd gotten it down to a science. At least he didn't drop the poor thing, though he certainly had his moments.

His hands were a bit shaky this time, though, and he just stood in the snow for a few minutes, trying not to feel Yvette's piercing eyes boring into his back. The further along they traveled, the more unbalanced she seemed to get. Her silence only seemed to make it worse, and made it difficult for him to see her fits of rage coming.

Balancing Tegan over his shoulder this time, he managed to huddle over a pathetic fire, heating the bottle up to the point where it was rather painful for him to hang onto it. Given how quickly it would cool, though, he thought it was a small price to pay.

How did he know how to do all of this, anyway? He'd certainly never been even remotely near children since he'd become Forsaken, and if he couldn't remember his past, why did something like this come easily?

He pulled himself back up onto the shovel tusk, taking note that Yvette had moved from glaring at him to glaring out into the snow. She waited, he noticed, until he had gotten properly situated before she urged the massive beast on again.

Making sure the milk had cooled enough not to burn the baby trolls mouth, he offered it to her again. This time, thankfully, she relented and began to drink eagerly. Edgar let out a sigh of relief in spite of himself.

"Is everything all right, Yvette?" he asked her after a short silence. He'd been meaning to ask her, and since he was still alive even after her many, many murderous glares, Edgar thought it was a mostly fair call that she wouldn't kill him just for talking. Hopefully.

"Why?" Yvette said sharply. She didn't turn around, and the reins didn't creak. Progress.

"Who did they make you kill? The Scourge, I mean," Edgar asked quietly. He cringed without meaning too, expecting a violent reaction, but he was met with silence. She didn't turn. She didn't squeeze the reins.

Edgar flicked a look down at Tegan, who was draining the bottle greedily, and back up at Yvette. The wind was battering them almost constantly now, the shovel tusk wading through the heavy snow. Perhaps she hadn't heard...?

"My brother," she replied. There was no emotion in her voice, which was not all that unusual, except that she usually at least sounded mildly irritated. Bored. Maybe even a little bit impatient. No emotion at _all_ was interesting. What was going on in that skull of hers?

"I'm sorry," Edgar said.

"You didn't do it," Yvette said. Her reply was fast again, and he supposed it was a predictable reply. How could he not say it, though? Being forced to murder your own brother...

"That doesn't mean I can't feel sorry for your loss," he said carefully, "I don't remember any of my family, before the plague. Never was able to find any records."

"It's better that way," the Death Knight said, "You don't know what you've lost."

She turned her head slightly, peering at him over her shoulder. Edgar wished he'd started to talk idly with her earlier – it seemed to soothe her, somehow. She'd died twice, fair enough, but they still had their first death in common.

"Look at how well you've taken to that child," Yvette pointed out, making Edgar glanced down again, "Do you want to remember the children you've lost? Perhaps you killed them when your mind wasn't your own. Perhaps you stood idly by while others did."

His brow creased but as much as he wanted too, he didn't look away. This was her way of pointing out how weak it was to care, to undermine him and make her own lack of caring less monstrous.

"I'd still like to know," Edgar said, "Maybe I had a happy family. Maybe I rescued them before all of Lordaeron fell. They could be getting by in Stormwind even now."

"If they saw you, they'd hate the monster you've become," Yvette returned harshly, "You could never be with them again. You might even have to fight your own children on the battlefield. What will it be like, in that moment? Would you be glad to have remembered them, then?"

"According to you, I apparently ate them," Edgar snapped. He didn't like her dark turn of mind in the least.

"According to _you_, they're living happily in Stormwind."

"It's a poor example, anyway," he said, deciding that the point went to Yvette in that volley. As it stood now, at least, he had no idea of his past. Perhaps it would be better if it stayed that way. Anne had always thought so, "You had your brother, though. Anyone else?"

Yvette left a silence before her reply long enough for Edgar to assume she was savoring her point made. He pressed his lips into a thin line – had she been a bitch_ before_ she'd died twice?

"We only had each other," she said, making Edgar feel a bit bad for his bitter thoughts, "We were all we needed."

"Were you both soldiers?" he asked. Part of him wanted to stop asking. It was much easier to consider her a monster and leave it at that, but by the same token, they were stuck with each other, and she'd saved his life quite a few times already. Even if her purposes were dubious, that didn't mean he shouldn't at least make an attempt to understand her.

"For the Argent Dawn," she said. Her statement was accompanied by a curt nod.

Edgar nodded. That would be why he'd never bumped into her, he supposed. He'd gotten caught up in Undercity military. The Argent Dawn did amazing work, but sometimes he didn't agree with the risks they took. More specifically, the risks they asked their soldiers to take. It was one thing to serve your people, but quite another to throw yourself at an enemy that for all extents and purposes could not die.

He was tempted to question why she was opening up, but it struck him as silly after a moment. When had even tried to ask? He'd been more intent on talking about himself or about how they were going to get back than anything else. They'd spent all of their time on the zeppelin in silence, as well.

Way off base, would be how he'd describe his earlier thoughts on Yvette. She wasn't a bitch so much as she just didn't feel the need to sugar coat everything with tact. The varnish of social niceties had been all but sanded off of her. Perhaps he ought to appreciate the brutal sincerity on its own merits.

If they were going this way, then she had her reasons. Maybe it was a shortcut, or somewhere she knew they'd be safe until they could plot a better course. It had only been a day, after all, and it wasn't like he'd been of much use thus far. He looked after Tegan, but even that was mostly his fault. All his fault, really. She'd only gotten behind it when the troll zombies outranked their argument over whether or not to take her.

He looked down at her as she was gumming the bottle in mild confusion, and smiled, pulling the bottle away. She was a hungry little thing, if reluctant at first. How could she possibly be any sort of trouble? She couldn't even feed herself. Certainly couldn't change herself. She could barely stay awake after eating, her eyelids drooping as the shovel tusk plodded onwards.

It was difficult not to get attached to her. A few days ago he would've found the idea a bit absurd. In a way, he still did. Once they got out this situation, she would be a lot better off with her own kind. At least, she'd be better off amongst the living. Edgar adjusted the furs around her a little, making sure the wind wasn't blowing in her face, and leaned back.

"You said the vrykul thought she was a death omen," Edgar said, "Because of her birthmark."

"They're superstitious," Yvette replied promptly. Edgar smirked and shook his head – was he really that predictable?

"We did find her in some unusual circumstances," he offered, "They live relatively close to Drakkari territory."

"Shut up, Edgar."

"Hey," he said. Edgar scowled, sitting up some. What had he done to warrant that!? "I'm just sayi-_errmmfff!!_"

He tried to jerk his face away from her ice cold hand, but she had literally grabbed the lower half of his face. His brow creased and he gave her a questioning (and desperate) look. Yvette merely pointed a finger on her free hand up. Edgar followed her finger, trying not to think about how her touch seemed to burn, trying _especially_ not to think about how she'd melted someone just by touching them not too long ago.

Wheeling overhead was something... he couldn't tell what it was and he squinted at it. It let out a screech that identified it as a gargoyle moments later and his eyes widened. How long had it been there!? Had it seen them!? Shit!

Yvette finally removed her hand, and it took a great deal of self control not to gasp in air. He satisfied himself by at least feeling his face for any damage, but if there was any, he couldn't feel it with his numb, bony fingers. She brought her own finger to her teeth in a 'shush' gesture, beginning to very deliberately guide the shovel tusk towards some thicker tree cover. If she thought the gargoyle hadn't seen them, he was inclined to believe her.

A thousand more questions bubbled to the surface and he had no choice but to swallow them, to pray that Tegan stayed asleep, that the gargoyle remained uninterested in some wandering pack animal.

With another screech it finally winged off, further... which way? Towards the Grizzly Hills or towards the Howling Fjord? He certainly _hoped _it was heading towards the Hills. If it wasn't, that meant _they_ were, and that was_ not _where they were supposed to be headed.

Edgar thought he might suffocate from the silence, but he didn't dare speak until Yvette gave him the okay. She brought their mount under a thicker canopy of trees and slid off.

"We should stop for awhile," she said, even her hollow voice hushed, "It will make a few passes on the area."

"All right," he said, dismounting as well.

"Once it's gone we'll continue on. We shouldn't linger in one place for long."

"Do you think the vrykul will follow us?" he asked. That concerned him some, especially since she hadn't seemed terribly worried about it before. What had changed?

"No," Yvette said, "But something else is."

"What? You mean the Scourge, don't you?" Edgar said. He adjusted his furs against an unpleasant gust of wind, jostling Tegan a bit in the process. She fussed, but was too tired to protest much more than that.

"No."

"What, then?"

"We'll find out tonight," Yvette said, stalking off and away from the copse of trees.

"Wait, where are you going?" Edgar called after her, wincing immediately afterward. _Shut up, Edgar_, indeed.

"Setting a trap."

"Yvette-"

"You're the bait. Set up camp," she suggested. Edgar gaped at her, taken completely aback by her 'plan'. _Bait?_

"You can't be serious! What about the Scourge?" he demanded, starting to follow after her. He stopped in his tracks when the point of a runeblade was aimed between his eyes, and he swallowed hard.

"Bait," she hissed, "Build a fire."

"But the... the gargoyle," Edgar said, backing away a few steps. Yvette followed, not letting him get any distance between his head and the blade. She tilted her head at him, just so, and used a finger from her free hand to drag her scraggly hair out of her eyes.

"I have a plan," she said. Edgar didn't feel terribly reassured, but her demeanor told him it was one of those plans where him knowing it would somehow ruin the entire thing. Those were always the worst kinds of plans, in his opinion.

"All right," he swallowed, backing away one more step. She didn't pursue him this time, turning smartly on a heel and crunching off into the forest.

Once she was out of sight, Edgar released a wavering, audible sigh. He thought things had been going rather well, right up until the point where she'd pointed a godsdamned_ sword_ at his face. Edgar leaned against the shovel tusk and rubbed his face with one hand, glancing down at Tegan again. Damn it. _Damn_ it! This was insane!

Well, he wasn't helpless. Far from it. Edgar turned around and eased the vrykul sword out of the gear strapped to the beast, feeling the heft of it and grimacing. It was awkward, and meant for someone a fair bit bigger than himself. He'd make due, though he didn't know how useful he'd be against the sort of Scourge creatures that inhabited Northrend. Sure, maybe he couldn't melt people, or kill an entire stable full of animals on a whim, but he made _excellent_ bait.

Muttering, Edgar tucked the sword into his belt and grabbed the shovel tusk's reins, tying it to one of the sturdier trees before settling Tegan in the saddle. She wanted him to set up camp? Fine. He would.

_You better know what you're doing, Yvette_, Edgar thought, looking after where the Death Knight had gone one last time before he began to unpack the tent.

* * *

Something in a dark corner of her mind was screaming. _Shrieking_. It was furious, throwing a fit. At first she'd tried talking over it, sharing inane, pointless information with Edgar. That hadn't been enough, however, and she'd nearly missed the whisper of the gargoyle as it had flown overhead. Reckless. Very reckless.

_If you aren't quiet, the child will be lost anyway_, she thought irritably, not paying attention to where she was walking.

It was furious with her for leaving Edgar with the child. He was not powerful enough to protect it from those that sought it. When they found him, they would tear him to bits, and then where would her revenge stand?

_You will never destroy the Lich King on your own_, she (_it wasn't her IT WASN'T HER_) thought, _Only something from a time before the Lich King and the Burning Legion could hope to destroy such powerful, fel magic!_

Yvette let out a howl of frustration and swung her runeblade blindly, the fel steel humming with deadly menace as it cut easily through a tree. The tree slid down some before gravity pulled it all the way to the ground with a crash.

"Will you destroy him?" she asked, eyes darting around the clearing. Something was speaking to her but she couldn't see it. It was putting things in her head, and she was having difficulty separating herself from it.

Just like it had been twice before.

_It will be all right,_ not-her thought, _But you must protect the child. You cannot leave it be_.

"Edgar can fight the Scourge," she growled, trudging forwards and cresting a hill. To anyone else, the vista before her might have been beautiful. All she saw were an infinite amount of hiding places housing an infinite amount of enemies. But they weren't _her_ enemies.

They were. Because they were the child's. They had to reach Zul'Drak.

But that wasn't the right way.

_It is_, she thought, _It's the right way. It's too late to turn back. There are demons close behind_.

No, she hadn't thought that. Had she? It didn't matter. Not with the demons... no. There were no demons here.

"Stop," Yvette growled, "What demons? This is the Scourge's domain."

But what had made the Scourge? It had been its prized attack dog, gone off its chain and run wild. What master wouldn't want it back? If the Burning Legion were after them, after the child, that meant...

_Yes. Not superstition. All you have to do it bring it back_.

Yvette thrust her sword into a snowbank, the steel ringing out as it cracked through ice underneath, and dug the sharp points of her fingers into her temples. There was something inside her, goading her, confusing her, and she _wanted it out_.

Did she, though, truly? The unwelcome presence was offering her a means to end the Lich King. That was all she cared about. Wasn't it? She wanted her revenge, to fulfill the oath she'd made to her brother. After that, nothing mattered. So what if this presence was putting her through something she swore she'd never subject herself too again?

Black ichor congealed around her fingers, freezing in the cool air, and she withdrew them. She didn't understand the alien darkness inside of her mind. She didn't understand how it was able to inhabit her, but had been unable to prevent the child's removal from Zul'Drak in the first place.

Most of all, she didn't understand why she was questioning it so much. She had sworn an oath on her brother's grave. Kill the Lich King or die trying. Was she a coward at heart, in the very depths of her soul? Is that what made her balk at this new yolk?

"Where are the demons?" she asked nobody as she grasped the hilt of her sword. Though she'd thrust it in deep, Yvette pulled it out easily.

Far away yet, Yvette knew. Close behind, but not close enough to be a threat. _Yet_. They weren't even sure of what they were following, but the trail they were following was conspicuous enough.

She had to worry about the Scourge, most of all. They would find Edgar and the child soon. Very soon. They would see the fire and investigate, and then all would be lost.

Yvette turned her back on the countryside and stalked back into the woods. They would push forward, through the Scourge, and hope they could out pace the Legion.

_For you, Antoine_, she thought.

That, at least, was still hers.

* * *

Edgar was just nodding off when the crunching of heavy boots snapped him back to attention. He was on his feet again in moments, sword held with both hands, expression grim. Here it went. The sun had barely set and already...

"You could have said it was you," he sighed, lowering the point of his sword. Despite his irritation, he was relieved to see her.

"It's me," Yvette said, crouching down and sticking her hand in the fire.

"What the hell-!?"

Of course, a moment later, the fire flickered and died. Well, went _out_. You couldn't _kill _fire. If anyone could, though, it was Yvette.

"We're leaving," she said.

"What about the bait?" Edgar asked, sticking his sword in his belt anyway, making sure Tegan was secure on the shovel tusk before he started to dismantle the tent he'd set up.

"Change of plans," she said, untying the beast while he worked.

"Change of the plans you _still_ aren't telling me," he needled, trying to make _some _kind of point. Fair enough, he'd sort of ignored her plan in the vrykul village, but that didn't mean he should be kept in the dark for everything else.

Yvette regarded him a moment, and for the brief eye contact they made, Edgar could have sworn she looked... frightened? No, that wasn't it. Frazzled. _Stressed_.

Great. The Death Knight was losing her shit.

"We need to keep ahead of the Legion."

Edgar almost didn't register the statement as he folded up the canvas, and did a double take.

"Legion?" he repeated, "The _Burning Legion_ Legion?"

Yvette only nodded, and Edgar wasn't quite sure how to react right away. How had this happened? How had he gone from a relatively content life to running from the Scourge _and_ the Legion with a baby ice troll?

There was only one thing to do in this sort of situation, and that was laugh. Edgar let the laughter bubble up out of him, not caring if it echoed in the crisp air. He doubled over, bracing his hands on his thighs, dropping the half-folded canvas in the process.

Perhaps he had lost his mind somehow during the crash. He was really in a cell back in the Undercity, being studied and experimented on by some mad apothecary. The entire situation was _completely_ absurd, now. Even if they could somehow evade some crack team of _demons_, whom he was certain did not need to sleep anymore than Scourge did, they would still have to evade the _Scourge_ on a continent that was largely dominated by them.

Really, what more could they _possibly_ be up against?

"The only thing that could," Edgar paused to gasp for air, barely able to get words out around his laughter, "That could make this any worse is if we show up at Vengeance Landing only to find out it's been razed by the Alliance."

"That is hardly humorous," Yvette observed. She hadn't mounted up yet – Tegan was settled in the saddle, and the Death Knight still seemed loathe to touch her.

"If I don't laugh, I'll cry," Edgar said. His laughter started to fade somewhat and he resumed packing up the tent.

"Forsaken can't cry."

"It's just an expression," he sighed, though he did catch himself wiping for tears of laughter that weren't there. Once he was certain the gear was secured – Yvette didn't seem to be in as much as a hurry as she had before – he carefully picked Tegan up and mounted, shuffling as far back in the saddle as he could to allowed her room.

Yvette was up and had them going in moments, and he let out another audible sigh. It had felt good to laugh, even if it was some rather dark and desperate humor. Anne would have laughed along with him. If it had been Anne in this situation...

No, he wouldn't go there. He wouldn't want Anne in this situation, and he certainly wouldn't want to be the one tearing his hair out wondering where she'd gone. What would he have been able to do, if their roles had been reversed? His rank was barely anything in the grand scheme of things, his influence negligible. Edgar had every confidence that Anne would find some way to help him. She wouldn't swoop in on a wyvern, but she'd at least be trying to form a search party.

_Keep telling yourself that_, he thought darkly. All his mirth from before had completely evaporated now. They'd been downed by Scourge in the middle of Northrend, and their base of operations hadn't even been fully established yet. From what Anne told him, their resources were spread very thin and very tight. Sparing enough soldiers for a search party meant something else more vital going unmanned, unguarded, or simply undone.

Oh, Anne would try, but she was pragmatic. She would weight the possibilities, mourn, and go on. How long had she worked at being Captain of the Royal Deathguard? She was close to being promoted into covert operations, she'd confided to him. He remembered trying to be excited for her, staying up late at night while she slept trying to imagine her being away for days, months at a time on secret missions.

Selfish. He was so very, very selfish. What had made him think he deserved her, deserved to be rescued from this frozen hell?

An odd sound broke him out of his thoughts and he looked up, thinking at first that the gargoyle had returned. It wasn't so far away, though. Right in front of him, in fact. Yvette was _muttering_ to herself.

That was... new.

He let it go on for a few minutes, but was unable to distinguish what she was saying, exactly. It was loud enough to ear, but not loud enough for him to decipher.

Edgar cleared his throat and she stopped, looking sharply over her shoulder.

"Have a nice walk?" he asked her, raising both his eyebrows at her. If he'd thought she'd been a bit off balance before, she was downright off her rocker now.

"The way I went is too wide open," Yvette answered, prompt and curt as always, "We should stick to the trees to maximize our cover. It won't matter for long, but it will buy us time."

"Yvette, is there anything you want to tell me?" he asked her.

Silence. And then, "No."

"Did you really leave me as bait, earlier?" Edgar said, "Or is something else going on?"

"You were bait, but I reconsidered," Yvette said, "We can't let the Legion catch up."

"Rock and a hard place," he sighed, shaking his head.

Yvette was silent for a long while and Edgar hunkered down in the saddle, trying to get Tegan situated in well so he could sleep without worrying about losing his grip on her. He was somewhat jealous that Yvette didn't need to, no matter how hard bought it was.

All but drifting off as the shovel tusk trundled through the woods, Yvette's voice started him awake.

"Tell me about Anne," she said quietly. Her voice was still hollow, still without real emotion, but that she had started a conversation herself was rather compelling. Though he wanted to instead ask her why she wanted to know, Edgar decided to indulge her instead.

"She's Captain of the Royal Deathguard," Edgar said proudly, "Has been for a few years. She was my commanding officer when I was a fresh recruit."

"Why did she marry you?" Yvette asked. Edgar allowed a small chuckle to escape his throat, but it felt a bit empty. Sometimes he wondered that himself.

"Because I asked her too, I suppose," he shrugged, "I still don't know what she sees in me."

"What is the point?" she wondered, "You're both undead. What sort of future is there in perpetual death?"

Edgar frowned and looked down at Tegan. Though the half-moon had ducked behind some clouds, the dull light from his amber eyes allowed him to observe her clearly. He didn't let any thoughts go through his mind for a moment, unsure of how to answer.

"It just felt like the right thing to do," he finally replied, "I love her. She makes me happy."

"You're both undead," Yvette repeated, "You'll persist until your flesh gives out. The Forsaken aren't even a true race – just reanimated humans. How many freed plague victims have joined the ranks lately?"

"Not many," Edgar frowned, "It's declined drastically over the years."

"Finite supply," the Death Knight said, "The Forsaken have no way to fill their ranks. Eventually there won't be anything left in the Undercity but dust and demons."

"That doesn't make my marriage mean any less," the soldier said, starting to feel a bit prickly. It was her way, he understood. In her nature to try to cause dissent. This wasn't the sort of thing he liked to be needled about, though, not something he so deeply cared about.

"It's empty."

"It is _not_."

"What purpose does it serve?" she said.

"It makes us happy!" Edgar said, "Surely you remember what that's like. What about your brother? Didn't he make you happy?"

"That's different," Yvette said, "Besides, he's dead."

Edgar shifted his jaw. That was a good point.

"Who was older?" he asked, deciding that arguing with someone who thought feelings were useless was a bit of a moot point, "You or your brother?"

"I was," the Death Knight said, "Only by a year."

"Do you feel like you failed him?" Edgar dared. He flinched away slightly when she shot him a sharp look, but thankfully, that was all she did. Something was making her hold back. Whatever it was, he hoped it was permanent.

"Yes," Yvette admitted.

"There was nothing you could have done either time he died," he said, voice quiet.

Yvette hissed and faced forward, "I could have been stronger."

Though part of him wanted to argue the point, to drive her up against a wall like she'd done to him a moment ago, he didn't. It almost didn't seem fair. If they got out of this situation, at least he could go back to Anne and to the life they'd made for themselves.

What would Yvette have? Wranglers from the Undercity who didn't trust her. Intense scrutiny and fear from everyone around her. Hatred for the enemy none of them could really hope to appreciate or want to achieve.

Edgar settled back into the large saddle, readjusted Tegan again, deciding he'd done enough talking – and enough thinking – for the day. Whatever tomorrow would bring, he would need all his strength. Besides, with their pursuers being what they were, sleep might be in short supply very, very soon.

* * *

Talking to Edgar had helped stave off the ever-growing tendrils of what she was beginning to realize _wasn't _madness. At least, it had distracted her from it. Her mind was so broken that it for her to be mad, she'd have to be mostly sane in the first place.

No, she was merely losing control of it, as she'd suspected.

Now Edgar was sleeping, and she had to find some other way to drive the encroaching haze she could smell coming. First she'd lose time, and then it would be as though she were having a nice long nap, letting someone else steer her body while her mind atrophied.

_Now_, she could still remember who she was. What she had been. How she had once lived.

"_Yvette!"_

_Hearing her name, Yvette peered out from around the linens she'd already hung. Absently, she drew a hand across her brow, pulling the wild blonde tresses out of her green eyes. She had a great many suitors, but she wasn't quite old enough to start receiving them yet. Next year, she would be. It had always seemed to strange to her, how an arbitrary number had been assigned to womanhood._

"_Yvette, there you are," Antoine said brightly. He was taller than she was, though she was older, and grinning from ear to ear._

"_What are _you_ grinning about?" Yvette asked him, giving him a little shove. They had the same eyes, the same hair. Sometimes people thought they were twins. Sometimes they played along, though not for long. Her eyes flicked to an opened letter in his hand, and she gave her brother an imploring look._

"_My apprenticeship was accepted. The painter in Lordaeron will take me on."_

_Yvette gasped, putting her hands over her mouth a moment before throwing her arms around her brother's neck. He laughed joyfully, spinning her around once before setting her down._

"_I'm so proud of you, little brother," she beamed._

"_I'm going to be a famous artist," he assured her, "We'll pay someone to do the laundry for us, sister."_

"_Well then what will _I _do?" Yvette laughed, continuing to pin up the laundry. She didn't mind that she didn't really have any useful skills. When their parents had died, she'd made money being a housemaid. Now, they could get by on Antoine's gift._

"_Whatever you like," he smiled at her, helping her with her chore, "I asked him for an advance so we can move into the city right away."_

_Yvette gasped, shocked, "Right away? You don't mean today, do you?"_

"_The sooner I start, the sooner I can earn my advance," Antoine said, his expression turning more serious, "There's nothing here for us anymore, sister."_

"_Mother and father..." Yvette said warily, her brow creasing._

"_We can still visit them," he told her gently, "We don't have to be near their graves to remember them."_

People had often thought that Antoine was the elder sibling. Only a year separated them, so it wasn't a vast difference, but it had always made them laugh. Gentle, generous Antoine.

_You'll avenge him_, the dark presence purred.

"You can't have my vengeance," Yvette growled back at it, trying to grind it down into submission.

It was _hers_. Perhaps something else was using her to its own ends, but she at least needed to keep that. The reasons were still fresh in her mind.

_Once golden hair had wilted into stringy straw. At some point, before she'd awoken, something had gnawed off much of her face. Her body had withered to nothing more than skin and bone. It appalled her, how some Forsaken women were proud of their twisted new forms, dressing to reveal the protruding bones_.

_Yvette hid. She hid beneath voluminous hoods and floor length robes. She and Antoine both had been training with the infantry, learning to fight. Though she was deeply ashamed of her ravaged body, she had every intention of using it against those who had taken everything from her._

_  
Taken everything from Antoine._

_He hadn't been at training all day, though, and when she returned to their modest home (more of a hovel, really, compared to the quaint home they'd only just moved into in Lordaeron), she found it in complete disarray. _

_Paint brushes were snapped and strewn about the floor, the walls covered in paint as though a madman had thrown them in a fit of rage. Further in, she found Antoine's easel broken, and sobbing coming from his room._

_He was crouched on the floor, gripping his knees, rocking in front of a canvas. It looked as though a child had tried to scrawl on it with paint and Yvette frowned, an unpleasant feeling in her belly. Carefully, she crouched down next to her brother and stroked his back._

"_Antoine?" she asked._

"_I can't," he gulped. There were no tears when she tried to wipe his face, and it frightened her. They couldn't even cry?_

"_What can't you do?"_

"_Can't paint."_

"_Don't be silly," Yvette soothed, "You're-"_

"_I can't anymore! I've forgotten!" Antoine wailed, gesturing angrily at the canvas, "It's... it's left me. That part of me is dead. Rotted away."_

"_Oh, Antoine," Yvette breathed. She hugged her brother tightly and he shook with grief, mourning the loss of his one true solace, his only gift._

_Yvette had never been an angry person. She was mild and polite and hardly ever raised her voice. Then, though, cradling her broken brother who'd had his Light-given gift stolen away from him like it had been nothing more than a pair of shoes... it was then that Yvette knew what hate was._

_It wasn't a blazing hot sun at the center of her being like she'd heard it dramatically described. No, it was venomous. The venom _did_ burn, but it wasn't hot. It was slow, and creeping, and she could already feel it devouring her._

"_We'll make them pay for this, Antoine. The both of us," she told him then. Her gentle, beautiful brother, who could barely manage to swing a sword without wincing only squeezed her harder. Kind a soul as he was, she knew he could feel the venom too. Unlike her, though, he was afraid of it._

"_I can't lose you, sister," Antoine breathed, pulling away slightly to look into her face, "I've already lost half of my soul. If I lost you..."_

"_You won't," Yvette said defiantly, "We'll make them pay together. I promise."_

She had lied.


	6. Chapter 6

Had anyone cornered him and pressed him for his reasons for coming along on what seemed to be the most depressing way to confirm your loved one was deader than they normally were, Murdok would have gladly admitted why.

Shalar'zahn.

Going unseen was a talent of his, but something like this was so plain it would have been impossible to hide. It was glaringly obvious to everyone, he was sure, even Shalar'zahn. Not even Anne, an outsider, had been game to ask outright in any case. He was grateful for that, in a way. She'd only asked after the twins and Makenzie, leaving it at that after he'd rebuffed her.

What had happened in Outland was between the five of them. Four of them, at the moment. Murdok had his doubts that they'd find anything at all out here, days after the zeppelin had crashed out at sea.

It had been in sight of Vengeance Landing, but barely, they had found out. Not close enough for them to have found any wreckage, though they'd been keeping a sharp eye out for any crates of supplies the first zeppelin was supposed to have brought.

So now they scoured the coast for wreckage, for tracks. The trail was ice cold and if they found anything at all it would be some sort of small miracle.

He glanced over his shoulder, back towards Ivan and Shalar'zahn. Her eyes held the keen gaze of a huntress, sharp and alert, missing nothing as the coastline skimmed by. Murdok was amused to note that Ivan seemed to spend half his time looking out into the ocean. He didn't _want_ to find any evidence. It would likely be damning, confirm what he already half-knew. The Scourge was known for its cold efficiency. Why would Scourge, so close to their master, change their tactics now?

Next his eyes moved to Anne and Igor, the former running along the cliff side instead of the shore, scouring the rock faces for signs of someone climbing up and out onto the fjord. If anyone had survived, he supposed Anne's husband could have managed. Makenzie didn't have much in the way of resourcefulness, eager as she was, but Anne's husband had been a soldier on a mission. And clearly, he had someone who loved him more than anything else. Whoever Edgar was, he doubted the Forsaken was the sort to give up easily in the face of such things.

"Look!"

Murdok saw Anne point before she called out, and he snapped his gaze forward, bringing his raptor to a slow trot instead of a gallop. Wreckage. They'd only been out half the day, and there was wreckage. Were they really that flat out, at the landing, that they hadn't even bothered searching this far?

With the lack of spare military personnel, he supposed if he were an apothecary, he wouldn't be combing any beaches by himself either.

They were all gathered a small distance from the wreckage very shortly, studying it from a few paces away, somewhat afraid to disturb the scene. It was mostly shattered timber from the zeppelin, pieces of the thick cloth that had once been the balloon blowing flimsily in the wind, almost as though they were marking the crash site.

"Lemme have a look 'round," Murdok finally said, sliding off his mount, grimacing at how the cold sand felt on his bare feet. Not even the snow in Winterspring was this cold – it was a good thing he'd packed boots if they decided they needed to go inland. He was counting on them finding out everything they needed to know from this heap of wreckage.

He shared a look with Shalar'zahn a moment, nodding once at her. She was a huntress. Maybe not a trained scout, like he was, but she could learn a great deal. She could pick out something important.

The two trolls fanned out on either side of the wreckage while the three Forsaken watched. Anne was tense, her eyes hard and her expression flat, unreadable. Shalar'zahn's was the same, but for reasons he didn't understand.

He thought back to how spooked she'd been on the zeppelin, frowning behind his face mask. _Nothing_ scared that woman. Her spine was made of cold steel, her very being seemingly made to weather things no other man or woman could. It was a good trait for someone who's mind was constantly invaded by the Loa spirits. Many of those who went down the path of the shadow hunter became broken and insane, gibbering shades of their former selves as the spirits ate away at their self.

Not Shalar'zahn. Sometimes she talked to herself, and sometimes she reacted to things he hadn't so much as smelled, let alone saw, but her mind was strong. _She_ was strong.

She'd been the one that he'd- _tracks!_

"Tracks!" Murdok called out.

"Yah!" Shalar'zahn echoed.

Their eyes met from across the wreckage and Murdok looked away quickly, feeling a stab of anger that wouldn't do them any good now. They'd done enough fighting over the past few days, and it was time to focus on the task at hand now.

The tracks he'd found were light, very light. Wind had all but scoured them away, but some large boulders as well as the heavy wreckage had shielded them some. Murdok crouched down to inspect what he'd found, letting the Forsaken decide where they wanted to go.

He bent down even closer, trying to smell the tracks, but all that filled his nose was the smell of the sea. Murdok frowned and began to follow the light footprints. It wasn't just that they'd been worn away – whomever had made them had been very light. Even Forsaken males were on the lighter side, though every rule had infinite exceptions. He hadn't seen Edgar, but he knew Makenzie was petite.

Assuming it wasn't the lone sin'dorei that had been on the manifest. Even the bulkiest of sin'dorei had very little too them. His lip curled in an unconscious sneer at the thought of some delicate, prissy elf surviving in place of a much hardier Forsaken. Murdok had never really been a fan of the Forsaken, either, but at least they weren't _elves_.

At least the Forsaken had a cause and a reason for being the way they were.

"What have you found?" Anne asked. He glanced over his shoulder at her and pointed down at the light footprints in front of him.

"Very light. Few days ol'," Murdok told her, pointing to the deeper ones near the boulder he had one hand pressed upon, "Even heyah, where de wind hasn't blown 't all away, dey be light. How heavy yah Edga' be?"

"He would've had some armor on," the Forsaken woman said, warring with the desire to give herself false hope and the reality that Edgar was likely not so light as to barely leave tracks, "He's not bulky like the twins, but he'd leave heavier tracks than that even without armor on."

"Sorreh," the troll said a bit awkwardly. She wore her disappointment like a flag, despair clear in her eyes, "Whoevah 'dese belong tah, we find, eh? Mebbe ask em' some questions. What dey find ovah 'dere?"

"The tides come up and washed some of it away, but Shalar'zahn mentioned some kind of struggle," Anne scowled, "She thinks you ought to have a look, since you're better at finding out the story behind them. What... do you know the story, with these?"

"Dey sneakeh'," Murdok shrugged, "But dat be all. Mebbe de othah' tracks say more."

Anne nodded and walked with him to the others, and Murdok paced around the wreckage once before coming to stand alongside them. Igor and Ivan were lurking near the back of the pack, he noticed, while Anne and Shalar'Zahn were at the very edge, peering into it intently, trying to spot something, _anything_ that might be a clue.

"Jest Fo'saken an' dat blood elf on board, yah?" Murdok asked, brow creased.

"And the goblin crew," Anne nodded, "Why? What's wrong?"

"Lookit 'dere," Murdok said, pointing to what looked clearly like hoof prints to him. They were half washed away, but the tide was out and they still had a lot of time to investigate, "No tauren on board, yah?"

"No, not that I know of," she said.

Murdok took a deep breath and moved into the wreckage, taking the utmost care not to leave any tracks over the ones there were already there.

"Dis bit... it wasn' like dis when it crashed," he said, looking at how it splintered in bizarre places, noticing deep talon marks, "Got tore up aftah'."

"What does that mean?" Anne asked, edging forward more.

Murdok waved a hand and crouched down. He knew his long, gangly form looked a bit silly when he crouched. It was as though he was able to fold himself in half, compact his frame into something much more manageable.

Crouched down like he was, he could see more of the hoof prints. Not even a tauren was heavy enough to make those. Something heavier. Maybe a doomguard or one of the larger demon varieties.

"Dere was a struggle he'ah," Murdok said, lifting up a piece of wreckage and inspecting it, "Someone fought wit' dis. Look how de wood be eaten away, eh? Demon blood."

"Demons?" Ivan repeated, speaking his first words since they'd left. Given his penchant for rambling on and on and _on_, Murdok had taken his silence for a blessing in disguise.

"Yah mon," he said, tossing him the wood, "Check dat'. Tell me it ain't been stabbed inta' a demon."

Ivan caught it and studied it intently, even going so far as to touch his tongue to the wood. He grimaced and nodded in agreement.

"Someone fought 'gainst de demon," Murdok guessed, "Dey got in some shots wit dat' sticker 'dere."

"Can you tell who fought them?" Anne asked. Her voice was wound extremely tight.

"I t'ought de Scourge make dem crash," Shalar'zahn pointed out, moving into the wreckage alongside Murdok with a frown, "Don' demons work for de Legion?"

"Maybe it... maybe Makenzie tried to summon a demon and it turned on her?" Igor suggested. Murdok didn't have to look up to know that Ivan was skewering him with a glare.

"She wouldn't have the first idea how to summon anything that big," Ivan hissed, "Besides, how do we know it's her? It could have been Edgar. Or the elf. Or someone else entirely."

Murdok found the discrepancy between Anne and Ivan quite interesting. Where Anne was eager to twist any clue into something about her husband, Ivan was hellbent on denying anything might be related to Makenzie. That Ivan was showing signs of even remotely normal coping was a little on the weird side. Maybe the slip of a warlock had actually _meant_ something to him.

He paused then, seeing a slip of _cloth_, and he glanced at the tatters of the balloon in comparison. Was it...? Murdok grunted as he hefted up a slightly heavier bit of debris, yanking out the strip of cloth before dropping the debris down again. It was the hem of a robe, possibly caught under this particular chunk of debris as its owner crawled away.

Sure enough, there were faint drag marks upon closer inspection.

"What's that?" Ivan said. His frightened tone reached his eyes when Murdok turned to look at him, holding the torn hem aloft.

"Dis familiar, mon?" Murdok asked. He was trying to picture Makenzie fighting off a doomguard, and decided it wasn't the most evenly matched fight. That she'd fought at all suggested she'd been in good condition after the crash, he supposed. That was something.

Ivan managed to look paler than usual (Murdok hadn't even been sure that was possible until now) and nodded once. His twin put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Ivan violently slapped it away.

"Whatevah came aftah her," the troll rogue began to explain, narrowing his eyes slightly as he moved through the tracks, "She di'in't try tah run. Jest picked up dat sticker 'dere. Mebbe hid inside the wreckage fo' a break, but it jest tore da' wood apart," he ran his fingers over the deep groves in the wood, "An made a grab fo' her. Pinned her robe, but dere be no blood on dis, so she jest tore it..."

Murdok wandered farther through the wreckage, seeing more as he went, everything falling into place as he went.

"Whoevah snuck away, dey was watchin'," he said, pointing down at where it looked like someone had been hunkered down, "Stayin' still til' de demon left, prolly. She got dragged heyah-"

Murdok trailed off and leaned close to the large boulder on the shore, inspecting it. Dried blood.

"Demon smack her head 'gainst dis," the troll said (_"Damn it!" Ivan hissed in a strained voice_), "It took off. Dug its hooves right down inta de' earth... den..."

He glanced over his shoulder at Ivan whose expression, Murdok decided, was a bit frightening. So overcome was the warlock with emotion (Hate? Rage? Sorrow?) that he was shaking.

"She did sometin', look 'ere," Murdok said, hurrying forward a few paces. There was blood spattered on the sand, half covered by the wind, but far enough away from the tide to have made it a few days, "Made it fall. It took off again wit' her, though. Dat' be all I can tell. Mebbe we should follow de' other track-"

"There has to be something else!" Ivan interrupted. He'd stalked quickly across the beach, fingers clenching and unclenching. There was so little skin left on the warlock's hands that they looked more like claws than fingers.

"Dat' be all, mon," Murdok assured him, turning around to face him out of instinct. Ivan was acting like a cornered animal, and those always lashed out.

"So she was dragged off by a demon and _that's it?_" Ivan said shrilly. He was practically _shrieking_.

"Ivan, you know what a good tracker Murdok is," Igor tried said, trying to intervene, to somehow soothe his wild twin, "If he says that's all he sees, then-"

"Fuck you, Igor," the warlock spat, turning to give his brother a rough shove. Igor staggered back into Anne, who had to hold him up to prevent both of them spilling over.

"Hey," Anne said in warning, "Watch your tongue. There's no need to get aggressive."

"You know I'm right, Ivan," Igor said, straightening his robes and flicking an apologetic look at Anne. The Forsaken woman looked less than amused.

"Mebbe we look for more on de beach 'ere," Shalar'zahn said, making a placating gesture, "An' Murdok can go follow de other tracks, yeah?"

Murdok shared a look with her, and the tiniest smirk twitched at the corner of her mouth. This felt rather familiar, didn't it? Any second now, they'd have to pull the two brother's apart. Unfortunately, they were missing a vital piece of the puzzle – there was no Makenzie to talk Ivan down from whatever insane idea he'd convinced himself of.

"Is there anything you're not telling us, Ivan?" Igor needled from behind Anne. Anne looked over her shoulder at him irritably but he ignored her, "Did you send her for something other than a rare herb?"

"What are you insinuating?" Ivan asked. His expression was not one Murdok ever wanted to be on the business end of – he knew what Ivan could do.

"Awfully strange place for Legion forces to show up, isn't it?" the priest pointed out, eyes narrowed, "Has there been any documented Legion activity here in Northrend, Anne?"

"No, not any on record," she said, "But that doesn't-"

"And suddenly, Makenzie's been abducted by them!" Igor persisted, "What did you _really_ send her here for?"

"For some Goldclover, like I've been saying," Ivan said, taking a few steps towards him. Shalar'zahn started to come up behind him, but he made a furious gesture at her and she put her hands up in defense. Murdok was already drifting around to Igor, and Anne seemed to be getting the idea that now that they were into it, there wouldn't be any diffusing the situation.

"Why would you send her for that all by herself?" Igor said.

"She wanted... she _wanted _to go, and I didn't," Ivan stammered, his rage getting tangled up in his other emotions, "I was content to wait for a shipment to come back, but you know Makenzie. She likes to experiment. She likes things _now_. I wasn't going to stop her from doing what she wanted!"

"You let her come to Northrend_ by herself_," Igor spat, "You lazy, selfish son of a bitch!"

"Hey, that's your mother too!"

"You take after her more than I ever will."

That was it. Murdok grunted as Anne stumbled into him, shoved aside by Ivan, who had just tackled his brother. Anne and the two trolls watched them wrestle with each other on the beach, a bit stunned, until Shalar'zahn moved into action first.

"Dat's enough!" she grunted, wrapping her arms under Ivan's and trying to yank him off. Murdok rushed in as well, giving Ivan a shove as he pulled his battered twin out from under him. Igor hadn't laid by idly for the beating, though, having split his brother's lip. The two of them struggled angrily against their troll restrainers, but neither was physically strong enough.

"This is your fault!" Igor called after his brother hoarsely. Unable to physically assault Ivan, he'd returned to words, "It always is, Ivan!"

Ivan let out an inarticulate snarl and Shalar'zahn held onto him tighter, her grip threatening to break his arms if he strained much harder.

"Look at both of you!" Anne exclaimed, making Murdok cringe a little. There weren't enough trolls to hold down all the crazy dead people.

"It's none of your business," Ivan sneered. Igor spat out sludgy green blood, and a tooth, and the warlock looked triumphant.

"We're all here for the purpose of finding people we've lost," Anne said harshly, standing equidistant between the two struggling brothers, "I don't see how trying to tear each other apart is going to help that happen."

Igor, who had slowly ceased his struggling, sullenly wiped at his mouth. Murdok loosened his grip slightly, and when the priest didn't bolt for Ivan, he let him go entirely.

"Be cool, mon," the troll encouraged quietly, moving to stand alongside him.

"Why are you so angry at each other? You're _brothers_," Anne lectured. Lectures normally put Murdok to sleep, but that was something not even he knew, "You have family where most Forsaken don't even know who they used to be."

Igor twitched and Murdok put a hand on his shoulder in warning. The troll was prepared to knock him out if necessary, and he knew Shalar'zahn was probably already wishing she'd done it to Ivan. The warlock was still attempting to break her hold – he wasn't trying to set her on fire to do so, at least. That never went over well.

"It's _his_ fault," Igor muttered.

"Don't you say another word you little maggot," Ivan warned, posture stiffening, "That's private."

"_What_ is his fault?" Anne said. Her patience was worn quite thin, and Murdok imagined that was _quite_ a feat.

"This," the priest said disdainfully, gesturing down at himself, "Being Forsaken. It's his fault."

Murdok was a bit shocked to hear that information, and even more shocked that Ivan wasn't even refuting it.

"It's not like I set out to do it," Ivan said through grit teeth, "And I don't remember you protesting."

"I never stood up to you then," Igor said, voice wavering some, "You knew you could make me do whatever you wanted."

"You wanted it as much as I did," the warlock said. The emotion had bled out of his voice until only regret remained.

"You _made _me want it," the priest protested, shaking his head, face twisting up in anger. Though it wasn't a terribly accurate imitation, Igor raise his voice a register to mimic his twin, "We'll be the most powerful warlocks _ever_, Igor! You'll see! I've got it all worked out!"

"How could I have known there would be necromancers there that night, Igor!?" Ivan protested back, "If we'd used those ritual stones to summon a Felguard, the warlock guild would have been begging us to join-"

"I said I had a bad feeling! I said I didn't want to go through with it! But you wouldn't let me! You dragged me to the stones, and-"

"And they heard you struggling, and decided to test out the stones on us. I was there!_ It wasn't my fault!_"

"I'll never forgive you for what you did," Igor said in a small voice, curling up on himself some in reaction to the horrible memories. Ivan only looked stony and impassive.

"You not gonna blow 'is 'ead off, are yah?" Shalar'zahn muttered to Ivan. Ivan shook his head and she released him, lingering close, not believing him for a second.

"Makenzie didn't do anything to you," the warlock finally said. Igor shuddered, and Murdok imagined that the priest was trying to cry, "Will you agree with that, at least?"

"Yes," Igor whispered, "She deserves to be saved. It's not her fault, either, what you've done."

Murdok thought both of them were going a little overboard in the blame department, but if he thought that, he'd have to question his own disagreement with Shalar'zahn. Part of him hoped that she was thinking the same thing, but her expression was a largely unreadable scowl.

Anne rubbed her temples and made a placating gesture, as though she were smoothing out some sheets.

"Let's have a lunch break," she said quietly, "And then we'll follow the other trail. All right?"

There was a dull muttering of agreement, and everyone broke off to do rifle through their packs for lunch.

Ivan didn't bother with lunch, standing on the shoreline with Makenzie's hem clutched in one hand, staring out at sea. His twin huddled against a boulder, eyes unfocused as he relived some past torture. Shalar'zahn and Anne seemed together enough to eat, though, so he joined them near where their mounts were idling. Ivan's felsteed had wandered off to stamp on a crab, eating its steaming guts merrily.

"Was that a surprise to you, too?" Anne wondered, leaning against her warhorse.

"Yah," Murdok nodded, flicking a look at Shalar'zahn. As usual, she was acting as though he wasn't there, "Dey nevah even tell _us_ dat'."

"'Dose boys need tah have a bettah chat 'bout dat," Shalar'zahn said, shaking her head as she sniffed an apple, "Dey both got it all wrong. Mebbe a mistake got 'em caught up in dat, but at least they still 'ave each 'udder."

"Hopefully they have a truce for now," Anne sighed, gnawing on a ration. Murdok was relieved that Anne's cheeks were still mostly intact. Sometimes being around a Forsaken when they ate had the tendency of putting one off their feed.

"Dey have em' and break em' all de time," Murdok offered, "Was a truce in Dreanor til-"

Shalar'zahn cleared her throat pointedly and Murdok shut up. Fair enough. He didn't really want to dredge up what had happened in Outland, either. It was still fresh in his mind. Still a fresh wound.

"When dey ain't fightin', dey be good fellas," Shalar'zahn said, "But dey bring out de wors' in each ot'er."

Anne had raised her eyebrows slightly, but she was obviously eager for things to return to a dull roar. As much as it must've been nice to be distracted from her own pain, Anne seemed like the single minded type. She would want to focus hard on their task despite her own personal curiosity about the disagreements of her companions.

* * *

Silk had always been an indulgence Ivan had never totally understood. It was flimsy, stained easily, and was outrageously expensive to boot. Makenzie loved it, though. Loved how it felt on her skin, how it flowed when she moved or when the wind blew...

He'd had a robe made for her, for her birthday. She didn't remember her real birthday, so she'd just picked the day she'd woken up in Deathknell. It was as good a day as any, she'd told him brightly. No sense pouring over boring town registries and searching for letters or clues.

She'd been happy to continue her new existence. It was a relatively common reaction. Most either responded to undeath with crushing despair or a sort of morbid optimism. Makenzie had been the latter from the start.

The robe was her favorite. All purples and blacks and embroidered with silver runes and demonic designs... she'd loved it. She'd worn it as often as possible.

"_Why wear that to Northrend?"_ he'd asked her, concerned it might be damaged or lost. It certainly wasn't warm enough.

"_It brings me luck,"_ she'd responded flippantly.

His hands squeezed the soft material, now torn and tattered from her struggle, the seawater, and the sand. Ivan twisted it tighter and tighter, imagining it was the demons neck, that it was his brother's arm, _anyone_ who was even partially responsible for how he was feeling.

Part of him had known it had been Makenzie the second Murdok had uttered the word demon. Of course she'd been involved. Of_ course_. That was his luck. His destiny. Everyone he was close too ended up completely fucked.

No, not completely. They were always alive and aware enough to comprehend their suffering. To feel what had gone wrong. To know it was_ him_ who'd wronged them.

Ivan couldn't pretend, anymore. It was _his fault_ Makenzie was missing, apparently abducted by the Legion when not even the Royal Deathguard had known their influence had spread. Were they working alongside the Scourge again? If that were true, even if they did rescue Makenzie and Edgar, they were all screwed anyway.

It had been his fault, too, dragging his brother to their untimely demise. He still stuck by his conviction that he'd never meant for it to happen, but Igor was right. Ivan had always been adept at bullying Igor into doing whatever he wanted.

Only because Ivan had wanted him to come along. Igor had been his only friend. He was something of a captive audience, but still. Charming as the two of them had been when they were alive, those who got close to Ivan were quickly repulsed by his dodgey morals and perverse mindset.

Except Makenzie.

The material frayed and tore as he twisted it beyond its limits and he stopped, wadding it up and jamming it into a pouch on his belt.

"Ivan!" Murdok called out. He turned from the water and trudged towards them, making an idle gesture to his felsteed. While Shalar'zahn took a hold of the raptor's reins, and Anne her own mount, his followed him obediently. It hated him, and it would kill him in a second, but not until he'd freed it. And he had no intention of doing so.

A smirk almost made it to his face. The only things that were obligated to stay around him were things that hated him. His demonic servants. His mount.

His brother.

That the tracks leading away from the debris weren't Makenzie's meant that he wasn't terribly interested in them. If they belonged to Edgar, Ivan was going to lay him out for abandoning her while she fought a demon by herself.

If it was someone else entirely... his point still stood. What sort of pathetic coward left a woman to fight a demon, anyway?

Part of him regretted at snapping at Murdok before, but he wouldn't apologize. Murdok would understand. He knew that Ivan was quite aware of his tracking abilities and respected them. They could both just let it slide.

It wasn't as though they'd ever been close friends. They were somewhat similar, at least in their belief that the lives of others weren't sacred. Everything was means to an end. Shalar'zahn would lecture about some sort of overarching balance that such an attitude threatened. Igor would argue that all life was sacred.

Makenzie would tell him to stop boring her and come to bed.

Ivan couldn't see what Murdok did. Even Shalar'zahn looked a bit surprised by what he was finding, with so much of it scoured away by the elements. It wasn't all just evidence he was following, though, not just tracks. He had a talent for it, and he had a feeling. Hunting animals was one thing. Animals were deliberate creatures. Predictable, no matter what sort of animal they were. Humanoid quarry, on the other hand... it was deceptive. Whomever this person was, they likely knew someone might come looking for them.

Murdok paused after about an hour, inspecting a root that had twisted out of the rocky cliff face. He picked at something and held it up to the light, bringing it back to the rest of them. They'd all taken to trailing a ways behind him, not wanting to crowd the troll or distract him from the tiniest detail.

Blonde hair. Just a strand of it, broken off when its owner had brushed past the scraggly root.

"Blood elf," Murdok said, letting the hair flutter to the ground after they'd all gotten that news. Ivan glanced over at Anne, wondering how such an obviously in-control woman could let her crushing disappointment read so plainly on her face.

She didn't have anything to hide, he supposed, not like the rest of them. Her husband was the reason she was here, and she'd make no other false pretenses.

Igor was still folded up on himself, hands clasped together, not looking at anything but his feet. There was still a smear of blood on the coat he'd pulled on over his robes. Normally Ivan would have taken some pleasure in it, but just now he found he didn't have the energy or the will too.

The only one he couldn't read, aside from Murdok, who was too far ahead to look at, was Shalar'zahn. The shadow hunter was adept at playing her hand close to her vest, even when she was faced with quite a lot. It couldn't be easy to be around Murdok after their vicious break up.

Had that been his fault as well, in a way? Murdok had never outright blamed him for it, since they'd been in it together. So to speak. Even Makenzie had been unsure of who to side with then. That should have been hint enough for them to stop, but the scent of riches had blinded himself and the rogue.

The female troll was used to adversity, though. All of the Darkspear tribe was. To face annihilation in your own lifetime was a sobering thing. Most trolls were like her – Murdok would be just as stony faced. Somehow, their kind had mastered the ability to push aside everything else when their current task called for focus. They could grin nastily, snap and snarl, even come close to blows, but the second something was required of them, it dried up.

It was part of what made them such formidable adversaries, he supposed. If that was something they'd cultivated as a people, just how vicious were they, that such focus was even necessary?

_Just how pathetic are you, Ivan, that you'd rather muse about the social constructs of trolls than about how to find Makenzie? _He asked himself angrily.

Thankfully, he didn't get a chance to answer himself. Murdok had given a shout and pointed. There was a sin'dorei man frozen in shock, dragging what looked like a dead crab back towards a cave. He dropped the heavy crustacean's leg and offered the group a wave.

All sin'dorei put forth a well groomed and attractive front, and to find one that didn't was just as shocking as it must've been for him to see members of the Horde approaching. That the man hadn't walked the half a day it took to get to Vengeance Landing was a bit bizarre, but Ivan wouldn't worry about that now.

This prick had let Makenzie get dragged off by a demon, and he was going to turn his pretty (bruised) face into a meaty pulp. A hand on his arm startled him, and he prepared to slap Igor's hand away, but it was Anne, not his brother.

"Don't," Anne said grimly, speaking quietly, "We need to question him first."

The sin'dorei met them halfway, though he kept flicking nervous looks upwards, gesturing them closer.

"Hello!" he said, voice cracked, "Come in, come in, before you're seen. It wouldn't do. You don't want to get carried off!"

High pitched, rather mad laughter leaked through his lips and they all followed him into his 'home', a shallow cave with the majority of the zeppelin's ravaged balloon arranged into a makeshift bed.

"You're Geralthus Cloudfall, yes?" Anne clarified, playing along as he implored all of them to sit down. Ivan didn't. His hands were clenched into tights fists at his side, and he was only vaguely aware when Shalar'zahn and Murdok both stood next to him.

"Yes, yes, it's lovely to see you," he said, fidgeting his fingers together, flicking nervous looks at the entrance of the cave, "Is the war over?"

"Geralthus, do you remember what happened on the zeppelin? Before it crashed?" Anne persisted

Another nervous twitter, high pitched,_ piercing_. Ivan twitched forward a step, and heavy troll hands came down on both his shoulders.

"No good, mon," Murdok warned, voice low.

"Yah," Shalar'zahn added.

Igor, of course, was approaching the battered elf, attempting to coax him into sitting.

"I'm a healer," he said in his placid, disarming way, offering the elf a soothing smile. The elf flicked a look between Igor and Ivan, obviously aware enough to notice something similar, but he eventually sat down.

"I need you to remember, Geralthus," Anne pressured, crouching down alongside Igor as he tended to the elf's wounds, "Everything you can, before and after the crash."

"I'm terribly hungry. These crabs-"

"You can eat when you've talked," the Forsaken woman said. There was a finality in her simple statement. If Ivan could hear the silent threats, the implied malice, then surely the elf could too.

Geralthus gulped, wincing as Igor straightened out his arm. As the pain began to fade – it had been broke, Ivan mused, so perhaps he'd break it again – he cleared his throat and looked down at the sandy ground.

"It was all very quiet," the elf told them, "The whole trip. It had seemed rather routine until the Death Knight boarded. The way she... the way the air seemed to become heavier around her... colder. And her eyes...

"She didn't speak. We spoke amongst ourselves a little, but really, nobody wanted to attract that things attention. She had some sort of escort with her, another Forsaken. He was quiet too. Didn't look very thrilled with his job either, but he sat across from her instead of huddled down at the end of the benches like the rest of us.

"When she did talk, though, she said something to the man with her. I was watching them, I remember, I... I was quite curious to know what they were doing. He looked alarmed and then we... the Scourge... the _sounds_ they made...! The screams of the crew!"

"It's all right now, Geralthus. You're safe here," Igor soothed, turning to Anne, "Maybe some rations-?"

"What did the Death Knight do then?" Anne demanded, cutting the priest off. Ivan was swallowing questions about Makenzie – perhaps it was for the best he hadn't focused on her.

"She... she just sat there," the sin'dorei gulped in air, eyes huge as he relived the very recent trauma, "Someone got up to see what was going on, and then we were all thrown to the side. She grabbed her guard-"

"Grabbed him?" Anne interrupted in spite of herself.

"To keep him from falling around with the rest of us. We were all in a heap. Someone landed on me and broke my arm," Geralthus said, "When... when the balloon burst, she threw him against the hull and knocked him out cold. Threw him over her shoulder and started to climb out towards where the observance deck is, in the back. Only it was the top, then, wasn't it?"

He laughed again, the sound putting everyone on edge, and Ivan began to listen more closely. Ivan didn't care about the Death Knight and her unconscious captive. What about _Makenzie_, damn it?

"When she got there – we could all see, we were all hanging onto each other, screaming – she just... jumped out. Just like that. She must've known something we didn't I suppose, and then we hit the water... the water seemed black. It was freezing. I knew I'd drown. Some of the others had tried to go above deck, to help fight off the Scourge, but...

"I didn't know which way was up, or how I was going to swim with a broken arm. It's not like I had a chance to take a deep breath, either, and we were sinking... someone, this woman, she was a... a warlock or something like that. Suddenly I could breath fine, she could too. I... I nearly gave up a few times, but she dragged me to shore. It was raining. It was_ terrible_. We'd crashed close to shore. There was a piece of the zeppelin there and we fell asleep in it. Not for very long, though. The sun came up and she tried too... that... that _stupid_ dead bitch-!"

"Don't you_ dare!_" Ivan roared. He'd been stewing in his own anger since this morning, but he would not listen to someone malign Makenzie after hearing she'd saved his life!

Geralthus' face was twisted up, a mad glint even more clear in his eyes, and he bared his broken teeth at Ivan.

"There's no need to place blame," Igor attempted to soothe.

"Let him talk," Anne ordered, her voice ringing out in the cavern.

Ivan strained against the two pairs of hands holding him in place, wondering if it was worth it to let them rip off his arms to kick the living shit out of the sin'dorei. At the moment it seemed like a fair trade.

"She said she could get us help. That her boyfriend was a powerful warlock and she'd just get a demon to send the message," Geralthus said, eyes fixed on Ivan now, wary of another outburst, "She'd tried to summon it, but it fizzled. Said that she wasn't that great at summoning yet, but she'd get it eventually, or her boyfriend would sense it through the nether.

"Then we heard something outside. A... something heavy. She went out to greet it and she screamed. There was struggling, and fighting, and she came back in! Asked me to help! I tried to push her back out to whatever was after her, but it came in. It was too big to fit inside, so it just _ripped_ the wreckage open to get at us! I slipped out while she fought it. It roared a few times, because she was trying to kill it with wood. Kill a dreadlord, with wood!? Please!"

"_Dreadlord?_" Shalar'zahn whispered, brow creasing deeply.

"It took off with her. She managed to do something to it, because they were both on the ground for a moment. I think it's wing was bleeding. It hadn't liked that at all. Then they were gone. Gone! I was safe! It hadn't even bothered to find me. Not yet. It might, though. So I stayed hidden."

"You let it take her!" Ivan accused, "How could you do that after she saved your life!?"

"It's not as though she _had_ a life to save," the blood elf sneered, almost leering at Ivan, quite brave with two trolls holding his aggressor.

"Did you see any sign of the Death Knight? Of the man with her?" Anne asked. Ivan couldn't believe she wasn't the least bit moved by what the elf was saying. He'd thrown Makenzie to the wolves! To a _dreadlord!_

"No, no, no," he said nervously, making wild gestures with his hands, "Didn't go looking for her. Didn't want too. Probably dragged that man off to eat him later. Probably took him to the dreadlord."

Anne stood, and a flicker of disgust flashed across her face. It gave Ivan some hope that he might be able to earn poor Makenzie some retroactive retribution.

"We'll take him back to the Landing," Anne decided, looking out at the fading light, "And we'll figure out a new strategy from there."

"He doesn't deserve to be saved," Ivan said.

"It was a terrible situation, Ivan," Igor tried to soothe, "Not everyone acts heroically. At least he's told us what's happened."

Ivan couldn't even see straight. His anger demanded satisfaction. It grabbed for his power, attempting to bring it to the surface, to push away the trolls and burn the elf until there was nothing left but bones and cinders. Poor Makenzie. She'd had so much confidence in him, and he'd probably been too drunk to notice someone plucking the nether to get his attention. Someone_ else_ had noticed.

But that someone would have had to be very close by to respond so quickly. Demons weren't all that thrilled with warlocks, dreadlords were no exception, but why carry her off? Why even bother?

There weren't any answers that were pleasant. Doing something to the pathetic creature in front of him would have been a much better distraction than thinking about what was being done to his lover. To the only person on the face of Azeroth who didn't look at who he was and turn away in disgust.

"Let's head back," Anne said, heading out of the cave. Shalar'zahn and Murdok dragged him out, though it was only the shadow hunter who mounted up behind him on his felsteed. He had to satisfy himself with murderous stares as the elf hopped up behind Murdok, muttering thank yous to everyone in earshot. More accurately, just muttering thank yous so he at least made the appearance of being grateful.

When he discovered how close Vengeance Landing was, he broke into more off balanced peals of laughter, and the infirmary took him in while they all regrouped inside the Inn.

He hadn't eaten lunch, and dinner wasn't all that appealing either, but he needed to keep up his energy. Ivan didn't even taste the food he was eating. The warlock even passed on some mead the Innkeeper had offered them, sympathetic to their cause.

"We won't find anything else on the coast," Anne began about halfway through the meal, laying out her map, "I think that much is clear. Whatever abducted Makenzie is long gone, and the same goes for the Death Knight and Edgar."

"Dunno how we gonna track em'," Murdok said around his dinner, swallowing hard before continuing, "Can't track nuttin' dat flies, an' who knows where dat Death Knight's trail is. Who knows if dey even leave a trail, eh?"

"It hasn't been that long. They must still in in the fjord somewhere," said Anne.

"You're assuming the Death Knight washed up where Makenzie and the elf did," Ivan said. He spoke softly, sounding a great deal like his brother when he did so, "She could have wound up anywhere along the coast. Maybe she got picked up by the Scourge."

"She hates the Scourge more than anyone I know," Anne frowned.

"Maybe she didn't have a choice."

"We should stick to the coast and see what else we can turn up," Ivan insisted, pushing away his meal, "If we don't we might miss an important detail."

"We'll be wasting precious time if we do that," Anne said. The tension between them was quite plain – their respective goals were not being held in the same place, "If the Burning Legion has a base, it will be inland."

"Why would they thumb their noses in a place they're outnumbered?" Ivan said.

"We talk 'bout dis in the mornin'," Shalar'zahn interrupted, waving her hands out over the table, "We's all pissed off an' cranky now, yah? No good makin' decisions like dat."

Anne looked dubious, and Ivan echoed her feeling, but everyone else seemed to agree with Shalar'zahn. Of course.

"Been a long day," Murdok agreed, "First t'ing in de morning, we meet up, eh? An' den we figure out what we be doin'."

"An evening of reflection will do us all some good," Igor nodded. Ivan was certain that was aimed at him in part, but he was too exhausted to care. Being so angry had taken a lot out of him.

"Fine," Anne snapped, gathering up her maps, "In the morning then. Don't be late."

She stalked off to her room, leaving the four old friends to their own devices.

"I go too," Shalar'zahn sighed, pointing between Ivan and Igor, "Behave."

Murdok watched her go, making sure he heard her door close before following, heading to his own room.

"You won't be able to kill that blood elf, you know," Igor said once they were alone.

"I'm not going too," Ivan told his twin. Igor snorted and rolled his eyes. He wasn't buying it.

"I never meant to get us killed either, you know," the warlock added, fiddling absently with a fork, "If you don't believe anything else I say, you should believe that."

"Goodnight," was Igor's terse response.


	7. Chapter 7

Edgar had been suspicious before of Yvette's direction sense, or at least, her lack thereof. After a few days (it was nearly a week now, he'd been losing track of the days) he'd noted the setting and rising of the sun. They were going North, _deeper_ into the frozen continent.

He'd known sooner that today, but he couldn't ignore it any longer. It had been easy to rationalize away her reasons for taking an unorthodox route back to Vengeance Landing, but they had to be near the borders of Zul'Drak. The distant shadows of towering ziggurats were one clue.

The troll raiding party trying to _kill them_ was another.

A spear sailed towards him and he only just managed to dodge it, practically throwing himself over in order to do so. Most of them were on Yvette at this point, but him picking them off one by one had finally earned him some attention.

He took some solace in the fact that the trolls weren't specifically looking for them. They'd just stumbled upon them, and despite the fact that Yvette didn't seem like the type to wander blearily into a troll raiding party, here they were. The shovel tusk was dead, and that was going to be a problem. Even if they beat off the trolls – and it seemed to him that they would – how would they out pace the Burning Legion _and _Scourge on foot?

Tegan, at least, had remained quiet so far. He'd fashioned a sort of sling out of her swaddling, effectively strapped her to his chest, and seemed to think all the scurrying about he was doing was good fun. It served the double purpose of confusing the hell out of the trolls.

The troll that had thrown a spear at him snarled something at him and charged, an axe clutched in each hand. Edgar grimaced and flicked a look down at Tegan. She let out a happy shriek and wriggled, and he muttered an apology to her. She might not like this – there was no way he was going to try and absorb a blow from a male Drakkari troll. He wouldn't even try it if it'd been Darkspear – trolls were big, and all muscle (he'd never seen a fat troll, come to think of it), and -_shit_ he was faster than he looked!

Edgar threw himself forward, awkwardly diving between the troll's long legs. It swore angrily and stumbled, forward momentum preventing the troll from doing much more than running over the top of him.

Checking to make sure he hadn't crushed the infant troll (he hadn't), Edgar closed the distance between himself and the adult troll, hoping to engage him before he'd fully recovered from his stumble, Tegan shrieking with glee as he did so. He was trying not to think about how ridiculous he looked. Drowning in vrykul furs, wielding a vrykul blade, with a baby troll strapped to his chest, he was less than intimidating.

Anne wouldn't believe this part, when he told her. He grunted in surprise at the force of the first swing the troll battered him with, being driven back consistently, losing the ground he'd taken. Maybe he should've put Tegan on his back?

For a moment Edgar caught both axes on the over sized sword, his arms shivering with the effort of keeping the massive troll at bay. He wouldn't last long, and the troll was going to bury the axes in his skull next, and then-

Tegan giggled and the troll looked down. Edgar wasn't sure what to make of the troll's perplexed expression, and thankfully, his instincts took over for him before he decided to just laugh. With a snarl of effort he ripped his sword out of the deadlock and smashed it into the troll's face before he had a chance to react. One of its proud tusks splintered and blood spattered all three of them, the troll staggered back and clutching at his face, dropping one of his axes in the process.

He was still staring balefully at Edgar, however, and the Forsaken got the unpleasant suspicion that he'd only made the troll angrier. It wound back an arm after a moment, unconcerned with its ruined face, intent on hurling its remaining axe at him.

Or at least, he would have, if it weren't for the fact that its head was no longer attached to its body. The heavy body slumped to the ground, revealing Yvette behind it, her runeblade drooling fresh blood onto the snow.

She moved forward after a moment and kicked the troll's body, making it twitch a bit.

Edgar looked over his shoulder, but quickly looked back at Yvette, hoping he didn't vomit. Did she have to dismember them like that!? Surely there were more efficient ways of killing people. He could think of several, actually.

"Now what?" the Forsaken soldier muttered, crouching down and getting a handful of snow, intent on cleaning the troll blood off of his sword. The soldier in him wanted to suggest Yvette do the same, at least to her armor. Nothing seemed game to stick to her runeblade, and he was almost completely convinced that it just drank up the blood that dried on it. Possibly before it even got a chance to dry.

"We should keep moving," Yvette said.

"Which way?" Edgar said. He posed it casually enough, and she was silent a moment before pointing. North.

"Towards our goal," was her even response.

That was her game, then, was it? Pretending they still had the same goals? Edgar stood and tucked the sword back in his belt, heading back a ways towards the fallen shovel tusk.

"Wrong way," Yvette called after him.

"We need some of the gear," he called back. Edgar was acutely aware of her boots crunching in the snow as she came up behind him, closer than necessary, and he shot her a look as she loomed over him, "I'm not going to just leave it here, Yvette. I need some of this. So does Tegan."

"We'll be there soon."

"As I see it, Yvette, we're a little bit off course," Edgar challenged. Though her expression didn't change (she couldn't change it, after all) the Death Knight seemed to scowl at him.

Yvette was silent for a minute. A few minutes. The air was thick with it, and Edgar started to feel unsettled, like his skin was peeling away the longer she stared him down. She'd already won the staring contest five times over before she spoke again.

"Something is telling me to go this way," she finally said. Her voice was suddenly strained. An odd screeching noise startled him into looking down – she was clawing at the armor on her thighs.

"Yvette...?"

"We're going to Zul'Drak," Yvette told him. Her eyes, normally sharp and piercing, seemed to dull in their intensity and become unfocused. The scratching ceased.

"That's a fair way from Vengeance Landing, Yvette," Edgar responded. What he was feeling right now could not be expressed in words, "And Tegan's parents traveled quite a ways just to dump her in the Howling Fjord. Why-"

He choked as an icy hand gripped his throat, lifting him off of his feet as though he were nothing. Edgar's first response was to grasp her wrists, but he yanked his hands away as though he'd been burned. It took awhile to strangle a Forsaken, but the fact that she could crush his throat with one hand would probably accelerate things.

"Don't make this hard on yourself," Yvette suggested, "This one... this... _I _cannot hold the child."

If he hadn't of been a bit distracted by being strangled, Edgar might've taken more notice of her stumbling. Tegan didn't seem the least bit phased, still babbling and wriggling away.

"I'm... not... going... to!" Edgar managed to choke out, giving up and trying to pry at her fingers. They may as well have been part of his throat for how tight her grasp was.

Yvette dropped him suddenly and he gasped, scrambling away from her on his backside and grabbing at his throat. He was a few feet away when he noticed her grasping her head, shaking it back and forth. What the hell was going on with her!?

No, he wasn't going to be sympathetic this time. She'd been more or less killing him a moment ago, and he was tired of feeling sorry for someone who didn't even have the common decency to tell him _what the hell was going on_.

"I don't belong to you," Yvette rasped. She staggered, as though something heavy was pressing down on her, but the only thing close to her was her runeblade, half-sunken into a snow bank, glittering balefully in the afternoon sun.

Edgar dragged himself to his feet, still rubbing his throat with one hand. The skin felt rougher than usual, as though it had been burned, and he eyed the reeling Death Knight warily. Who was she talking to, if it wasn't him? Was it the Lich King? That would be just his luck, wouldn't it?

He backed away a few more paces, putting the carcass of the shovel tusk between himself, Tegan, and Yvette. When her body tensed suddenly, so did his, her action so violent that he wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if she'd just _exploded_ then and there.

Yvette let out a defiant shriek and fell to her knees, back arched, face pointed upwards, jaw agape. She dragged her sharp fingers along her pale flesh, tearing long gashes into it and suddenly snapped her head forward, arms shaking as some unseen force tried to pry her hands away.

_Like a broke marionette,_ Edgar mused, fixated by the spectacle.

"I won't," the Death Knight heaved desperately, "Never again!"

She grabbed the hilt of her runeblade with one half-limp hand, pulling herself towards it. Edgar didn't realize her fatal intentions until he saw her body jerk and shiver to a halt, the unseen puppeteer trying to stop her.

"Yvette!" he exclaimed, forgetting the bowel-liquefying fear he was feeling and scurrying over to her, "Don't! Hey! HEY!"

Edgar (_you idiot, YOU IDIOT_) slapped the Death Knight on her bloody cheeks, deliberately not noticing that her blood burned to the touch. He yanked his hands back when she snapped at him ferally.

"We can still go back, Yvette," he pointed out, "And clear your name, remember? That's what we're doing. Don't do this. Don't let uh... don't let him control you."

Who else could jerk a Death Knight around like a rag doll without being anywhere near her?

"Tegan," Yvette hissed, making clutching motions with her hands.

He drew back, putting his arms around the snuggly wrapped troll and shook his head. No way. Not when she'd spent the better part of their time together refusing to touch her. Her touch burned, it _seared_, and that was what it did to his half dead, weathered flesh. What would it do to the soft, delicate skin of a newborn?

Slowly, the effort clearly agonizing, Yvette, rose back onto her feet. She staggered back, acting as though she'd been struck square in the face, and then lunged forward so quickly that Edgar had no time to react.

_Oh no oh no oh no_, ran through his head and the Death Knight ripped the baby away from him. Yvette had the now screaming baby troll out of her swaddling in moments, holding her roughly under the arms.

Edgar could only watch helplessly as Yvette held her aloft, ashamed that his fear had frozen him in place, that his shock had locked all his joints. He couldn't hope to tackle Yvette, couldn't hope to best her in combat, had absolutely no use once she... did whatever she was going to do to Tegan.

The Death Knight brought the baby close to her and Edgar winced, anticipating a bite, but then nothing happened. Yvette just held her there, entire body shuddering with the effort, acting as if Tegan were too heavy for her to hold up for long.

Unhappy, Tegan sniffled at Yvette and a stray hand flopped onto the Death Knight's forehead. Her entire body shivered, and Edgar imagined a marionette having its strings cut. Shocked out of his stupor by the bizarre reaction, he darted forward with his newly restored mobility, catching Tegan before she fell out of the nerveless Forsaken's hands.

Tegan mewled plaintively at him, and he hastily wrapped her up again, looking between the baby troll and the twitching Death Knight. Slowly, she stopped moving, lying perfectly still.

The baby troll's skin, he noted with some trepidation, was completely unharmed. Only the rough treatment had upset her. Aside from the bizarre circumstances they'd found her and her even more bizarre birthmark, there didn't seem to be anything all that extraordinary about her.

When a cold hand shot out and grasped his wrist, Edgar wasn't the least bit proud of the womanly shriek that issued out of his throat. Of all the things to catch him off guard-!

"It's me now," Yvette said, releasing him after a moment. Edgar eyeballed her warily as she sat up. Hadn't it been her before? When had it ceased being her and started being someone else, exactly? He rubbed his wrist, leaving those questions unspoken for now. Just in case she changed her mind and tried to get all strangley on him again.

"What was that all about?" he finally said, attempting to remake the sling that she'd snapped. Tegan grabbed for his hands and he let her, taking solace in the fact that someone could touch him without trying to kill him.

"Something was controlling me. It hadn't tried to take control of my body until then," the Death Knight explained. Her fingers trailed absently to her mauled face, but she didn't react outwardly if what she felt bothered her.

"Was it the Lich King?" asked Edgar, keeping his hands still so Tegan couldn't pull his fingers into her mouth. They were covered in Death Knight gook.

"No," she shook her head and stood, dragging herself upright by the hilt of her runeblade, "It wasn't. Something much worse."

"The Legion?" he said, frowning. The soldier gently took his finger back and resumed fixing the sling, standing once he'd down so. Tegan fussed and he bounced the baby troll a little in an attempt to amuse her.

Yvette looked off in the distance, towards the trolls she'd massacred earlier. She started to trudge towards them, dragging her blade behind her, as though it were too heavy for her to lift for the moment. Edgar followed, not one hundred percent on board with her sudden turn around.

"I think it was an Old God, or something that worked for one," Yvette said. Her voice was as even and matter-of-fact as ever despite her rather bizarre claim.

"What... what does that have to do with..." Edgar trailed off, shifting his jaw back and forth, "Yvette, what the hell are we doing so far away from Vengeance Landing?"

"It wanted her back with... where she'd be safe," Yvette said, crouching down near the troll she'd beheaded. Edgar had a pretty good idea of what she was going to do with it and he looked away.

"Safe?" he prompted, hoping his dubious tone would prompt her into further explanation before she dug in.

"She was put out there to die," the Death Knight said, "Not all the trolls of Zul'Drak saw her as a dark omen, however. We were taking her to them, I suppose."

"You don't know for sure," he stated, looking at her sideways. Was it a good sign that she'd referred to Tegan as 'she' and not 'it'?

"No," Yvette shook head head, idly moving her stringy hair away from her eyes, "It didn't tell me everything. Some of it I can't pick from my own thoughts."

"How did holding Tegan break its hold on you?"

"It didn't want me to touch her," the Death Knight shrugged, "So it was worth a try. I was out of ideas."

Edgar snorted and then let out a weak laugh, "What are we going to do now?"

"Head back," Yvette said, making a lazy gesture with one arm. She seemed to be savoring her full control.

"Back through the Legion? Or did you... did _it _make that up?"

"We'll figure something out," the Death Knight assured him. An unpleasant crunch told Edgar that he would be well advised not to turn around just yet. He returned to the prone body of the shovel tusk and resumed the task of unloading essential supplies. Since they'd gone from _no _supplies to only vital ones, it wasn't the easiest task.

Yvette came up beside him once she'd finished feasting, and he flicked a look at her, noting that the long gouges in her face were gone. It wasn't as though they'd done much to damage her already heavily ravaged face, but it had been clearly important to her to repair it.

"I made an oath to my brother, to destroy the Lich King," she told Edgar candidly, lifting one of the packs up off of the carcass like it weighed nothing, "And I made an oath to myself, before that, to never bend to another's will again."

Edgar only nodded quietly, wondering if she was going to tie those two things together for him. If she left it a mystery, he'd be fine with it. So long as she'd come to her senses, she could write an entire book of cryptic statements if it kept her sane.

"The thing controlling me could have destroyed the Lich King," Yvette said, gazing off to the South, "Antoine will understand. He'll know I couldn't compromise what little of my soul that's left."

"That sounds reasonable," was Edgar's quiet reply. He nodded at her when she looked at him, and he offered her a small smile. It wasn't much, but it was at least sincere. Hesitant, Edgar eventually relented to a solid pat on Yvette's back. Her armor, at least, didn't burn to the touch, "We should get moving before it gets too dark."

"Edgar," Yvette said, tilting her head at him slightly.

"Hmm?" he replied, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Edgar smiled a little wider and dared to give the Death Knight a chummy nudge with his elbow, "You owe me a years worth of drinks."

"I don't have any money."

"How about you get us back to Vengeance Landing and we call it even?" he said as they started to trudge back the way they came.

"That sounds reasonable," said Yvette.

Edgar pretended that she was smiling. For once it didn't seem all that bizarre.

* * *

Freedom. Free will.

_Self_.

They were trite things to be thankful for, common concepts that almost all living creatures had. In undeath, however, they were precious commodities. Luxuries, even, that even the most autonomous abomination savored and sought.

Part of her, some small part of her, had welcomed the oblivion that had been threatening to engulf her a third time. Without free will, there was no accountability. No choice. Only the cold certainty that something else was driving every action, every move, for a purpose she would never fully understand. That she would never need too. There was peace in such an existence.

Not a peace she could ever suffer again.

Whatever the dark presence had been, Old Gods or some other primordial agent of chaos, it had been far more sinister than the Lich King's influence. Even now she still felt herself questioning if there had even _been_ a presence (_there had, its tendrils had bored into her mind, cut into it like a hot knife_), it had attached itself so closely to her self that in wrenching it away, she had to wonder what other pieces of her self had gone with it.

So much had been worn away that every shred was precious. Or at least, she told herself that. It was a human thing to do, wasn't it? There was enough left of her for that, at least.

Edgar walked a few paces behind, struggling gamely through the heavy snow, weighed down by packs lifted from the fallen shovel tusk. She had considered raising a ghoul from the slaughtered trolls to help carry things, but the Forsaken man had suffered enough on that front. Yvette had surprised herself by developing some sympathy for him and his situation. He was far away from everything he knew, understood, and trusted. Something as honest and simple as carrying a heavy load and a child was grounding for him. It made him feel as though he was doing something more than walking straight back into the enemy.

And that was exactly what they were doing. Her reckless charge for Zul'Drak had most certainly put them at a disadvantage. If they had headed directly for Vengeance Landing, they would have been there by now, safe and sound.

But they wouldn't have found the strange baby or discovered that the Burning Legion was skulking about.

The child. Yvette looked over her shoulder, checking to make sure Edgar was keeping up, looking forward again when he nodded at her.

She did not envy the troll infant. Had her parents known, even before she'd been born, that she was a harbinger, some gateway to powers that slept beneath Azeroth, their black dreams taking on a nearly corporeal malevolence? Zul'Drak was a few days journey from the Fjord, through vrukul territory and the Grizzly Hills. The child had not been there long when they'd found her. Perhaps hours before sundown, a day at the most, afterbirth still stuck to her pale skin.

How did the Scourge and the Burning Legion know about something so obscure? Or was she kidding herself, about its obscurity? If such a birth was foretold by the trolls, surely the Scourge would have taken it upon itself to investigate it. And the Legion... it went without saying.

Yvette let out a sigh that was swallowed up by the thick trees, her breath not even making the light fog that Edgar's did.

Fussy squalling caused her to stop and turn, and Edgar offered her an apologetic, hapless look. It was for the better, in almost all cases, that the Forsaken were a finite people. In Edgar's, though...

Edgar nearly dropped Tegan in the process of trying to shoulder off the heavy bags he was carrying, making a far too loud '_Ohhhhoops!_' in the process.

Nope. It was for the better.

"Do you think it's safe to start a fire?" Edgar asked, lifting Tegan up and giving her an experimental sniff. His relieved expression told her that the baby troll only needed a feeding.

"It isn't," Yvette assured him, looking up through the thick canopy, "But it isn't as though we are covering our tracks to begin with."

He looked unsettled by her remark but nodded, nestling Tegan on top of the bags while he went about collecting tinder.

"What will you do with her, when we return?" Yvette asked. _When_ was not an accurate assessment of their situation, but her newfound sympathy for her Forsaken companion had led her to make less realistic world choices like '_if_'.

"With... oh, with Tegan," Edgar said. He flicked an uncertain look at her, as though he might gage why she was asking him, "I don't know. If... _when_ we return, I imagine we'll be debriefed before we even have time to notice we're back."

"Will Anne look after her?"

"Maybe," he shrugged, crouching down to light the kindling, "If she's not interested I'm sure there will be an ambassador from Orgrimmar who can look after things."

"How do you suppose a troll ambassador might receive a troll baby named 'Tegan'?" Yvette asked. She'd wondered from the start, but now that they had some idle time, it seemed like an appropriate time to ask. Once she'd come to better understand Edgar, he wasn't quite as pathetic to talk too.

Edgar blinked and then laughed awkwardly, scratching at the side of his face.

"I hadn't thought of that," he admitted, "I guess Tegan isn't a very trollish name, is it?"

"No," Yvette said.

"It's a nice name," Edgar said meekly, huddling closer to his kindling. He was having trouble lighting it.

"For a child," Yvette replied. Edgar looked at her, a somewhat sly expression on his face, and she added, "She will have to change it to something more suitable when she's an adult."

"It was a good idea at the time," he smirked. Finally, the fire sputtered into being, and he melted snow in Tegan's bottle before adding in the powder.

It wasn't a large fire by any means. A gargoyle circling far overhead would have been quite hard pressed to pick it out, and the smoke surely wouldn't break the canopy. Their trail was an obvious one, but she hoped that it would lend itself to an advantage of some sort. Perhaps they would mistake the deliberate path to be some sort of ruse, or perhaps they would lay an ambush. They would deviate course slightly, she decided, to combat that eventuality.

Unless, of course, whomever was following them didn't care to over think things. There hadn't been much thinking involved in her plan to get to Zul'Drak, and forming a plan now, beyond 'make it to the coast' seemed rather moot. They had no mount, limited supplies, and the Scourge and the Legion were sniffing around for them.

Edgar seemed merrily oblivious to such dire facts as he offered Tegan her bottle, speaking to her in a soft, low voice, smiling at her.

At what point, she wondered, was it deceptive, to continue to talk of lighter issues? When she could actually hear the Scourge whispering at the back of her skull? When the Burning Legion began to run them down like dogs?

Both Edgar and Tegan began to nod off after the baby troll finished her meal, and they did not exchange anymore words. She gave him a permissive nod and he curled up under some of the furs with Tegan, the two of them lost under the heavy blankets. Yvette didn't have to bother putting out the puny fire – it spluttered and died not long after the two of them settled into sleep.

She imagined his sleep would be content despite the trials of the day. Now that they were on the same page, he was far more inclined to just tag along. No protests or complaints.

It wouldn't last long. He'd have this one last rest and then they would have to make a hard break for the fjord.

Part of her knew that if she was on her own from here on out, she could make it. She'd risk drawing the attention of the Legion and the Scourge and summon the dark steed she'd acquired in her Scourge service from the shadow realm, ride the unnatural creature for as long as it took to get back to the fold.

But it wouldn't suffer Edgar, wouldn't suffer anything even partially alive like he was, or fully alive like the baby.

If she returned without Edgar, they would never believe her story.

And even if, somehow, she _knew_ they'd take her word, she could no longer imagine abandoning Edgar and his tiny, improperly named charge. Even without the dark presence in her mind, she still felt as though they had become part of some larger purpose, something greater than themselves.

That the purpose might spell the undoing of the Lich King and the Scourge somehow, however indirectly, was some solace. She would persist as long as the Scourge did. Revenge, she had so often heard, tasted best ice cold.

Yvette leaned against a tree (the bark slowly blackened and curled as the minutes passed) and looked up through the canopy. The cloud cover had finally blown away and the stars winked down at her, the moonlight giving the snow the appearance of silver where it filtered through.

It was only hours before dawn when the gargoyle returned. At first she had been content to assume it had not found them, did not see them, and was only searching in a holding pattern.

But they were not going back the exact same way they had come. And the last time it had circled overhead, seemingly not acknowledging them but all the same circling their exact spot, it had been some distance from where she now stood.

They were being stalked. Lulled into a false sense of security.

Yvette pushed off the tree and pulled the blanket off of Edgar. The sudden rush of cool air made him start and he groaned, opening one eye fuzzily.

"It's still dark," he mumbled, "Something wrong?"

"They've found us," Yvette said, hissing through her teeth.

"Whu-!"

She quickly put a hand over his mouth, noting by his twisted expression that it made him very uncomfortable, and she put a finger to her teeth. He needed to shush. Edgar nodded and she withdrew her hand.

"Leave everything," she said, "One satchel at most. And we need to keep moving now. A gargoyle is marking our location."

Edgar obeyed silently, packing mostly things for Tegan into a small shoulder bag, adjusting the still slumbering infant slightly before he nodded at her again. They forged ahead, and Yvette left it to Edgar to keep track of the gargoyle. He seemed more intent on watching_ it _than where he was going.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect was that she could _not_ hear the faint whisper of the Scourge. All she could attribute it too is something more powerful than mere minions directing them, cutting the off from the greater will. It seemed like a useless tactic to use, unless whoever was stalking them _knew_ that she could still hear.

"Yvette," Edgar said urgently. She looked over her shoulder at him, not breaking stride.

He met her eyes, and the fear she saw in them was not because of her, "It's gone."

"Good," Yvette said.

"No, no, it swooped _down_, not away."

Yvette stopped walking and drew her runeblade, eyes flicking around in all directions.

"Where?"

"Southeast-ish," he said, "It's hard to see through the canopy. I... oh, Tegan, shush, shh, _shhh_, not now...!"

The baby troll had chosen them to wake up and squall. Since she'd fed recently, Yvette assumed it was the smellier problem.

"Do it now," Yvette said.

"Yvette, what if-"

"Quiet her!" the Death Knight snapped, clacking her teeth together. Edgar obeyed, and she did her best to bite her tongue against a comment on his shaking hands. Even if they avoided on the forces that were almost certainly closing in on them, their trail was obviously transparent. She'd rather fight without the screaming of a child in her ears.

Tegan fussed and whined, unhappy now to be exposed to the cold even though she was being changed, and it seemed like hours passed before Edgar finally finished, wrapping her back up in her swaddling.

"They're watching us," Yvette said in a hushed voice.

"Where?" Edgar replied, backing towards her so that they were facing in opposite direction. He absently drew his own sword, and a glance filled Yvette with some relief – he'd stopped shaking. His blade was steady. He had impressed her earlier, with the trolls. The vrykul hadn't been a total fluke – he had some skill with a sword.

"We're surrounded."

"How many?"

"I can't hear them."

"I hate this place," Edgar said. His mutinous tone struck her as legitimately funny, striking straight to her core, and Yvette let out a dry chuckle.

Edgar peered over his shoulder at her, eyes wide.

"Eyes front," Yvette snapped at him the next moment, all traces of her good humor gone. Fighting the Scourge in their own territory was going to be... interesting.

It didn't start very quickly at all. A ghoul stalked towards them, staying a fair distance away from them, only just visible in the waning darkness. Every time she looked in a different place, though, it seemed as though more and more appeared, cutting off any possible paths they might have tried to run for. It was why she hadn't urged a run. Better to stand off than to run headfirst into them.

The near-silence was deafening. All she could hear was shambling feet in snow, snapping twigs and nonsensical gargling. Why weren't they attacking? _Why couldn't she hear them?_

Her first question became moot in moments, the ghouls surging towards them ravenously as one. Whoever was commanding them hadn't seen fit to test their skills with one or two minions – all of them meant that their trail had been closely examined.

Stronger than average, the ghouls were still easy to cut through, and Edgar held his own admirably. Their numbers thinned out considerably, the remaining circling. They weren't wary – they weren't conscious enough to be – but something was now holding them back.

"Is that it?" Edgar said, breathing heavily, a grin in his voice, "We should make a break for it before they get reinforcements."

"That isn't it," Yvette said, though she would admit she wasn't entirely sure on that score. Something had the foresight to dampen the voice the Scourge. Surely it wouldn't have sent mere ghouls after them?

The bodies at their feet began to twitch and they moved away from the piles in unison, noting that the remaining ghouls let them. Watching as the ghoul bodies they'd cut down reassembled themselves was unsettling enough, but noise overhead cause them both to look up. Geists too, though it was impossible to say how many. Where the ghouls only wore tatters of whatever corpse they'd been turned from, the geists wore dark clothing and bandages against the lithe skin, even pulling thick hoods over their heads, allowing only one baleful eye to glare out.

They were much quicker than the ghouls would be. More efficient.

And if they were only momentarily slowed down by being hacked apart...

"Look," Edgar whispered uselessly. She was looking. Amongst the ghouls another figure waded out of the darkness, dark plate armor glittering a menacing blue, lit by the glow of his eyes.

A Death Knight. One that was clearly not on their side, either. He was taller than Yvette, but not much wider, a somewhat distinct hunch in his back. Forsaken, then. One that Arthas had spared for his own purposes.

Just as Yvette did, he carried his massive runeblade with one hand, casually, as though it were a twig.

"I will destroy us both, Edgar, before we are raised as ghouls or brought before the Lich King," Yvette told him grimly.

"That's very reassuring, Yvette," Edgar said. There wasn't a trace of mirth in his voice.

The Death Knight advanced on them until he was ten paces away, his unholy presence putting Edgar completely on edge. Yvette didn't see at all how they would make it out of this situation. Connected to the Lich King, this Death Knight would be much more powerful, not to mention the unkillable minions at his command. What did she have on her side? A plucky soldier with a baby strapped to his chest.

Not the best odds.

"Yvette," the Death Knight addressed, tossing the helmet she'd thought she'd lost in the crash at her feet. She didn't quite care about that, though. The helmet was mostly for looks, made to intimidate.

It certainly looked intimidating on Antoine.

"You," was all she could manage to say. The entire world seemed like it was constricting in that moment, becoming only her and her brother. He was still alive. Twice damned, like she was.

She hadn't failed him. Not yet.

"I never thought I'd see you so soon, big sister," Antoine said.

"Huh?" Edgar mumbled, looking between the two of them in confusion. Something clicked in his brain a moment later and his shoulders hunched, eyes wide. Yvette decided she'd ignore him so long as he kept quiet.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," Yvette replied. Everything seemed so distant and still. She didn't even see the ghouls and the geists anymore, didn't notice the crypt fiends lurking further back in the dark, dense trees. Dawn struggled to make itself known, but it may as well have been dusk. Maybe it was. Anything was possible in that moment.

"You're very resourceful, sister. But messy," Antoine said. There was a coldness in his voice that wasn't him and she felt despair. _Not_ her gentle brother, _please_. She couldn't bear it.

Hadn't she so selfishly wished that he be turned, just so she would have someone who understood? It was irrational to think that her idle thoughts had caused Antoine to be standing in front of her like this, but here he was. His face was obscured by his helm, his eyes casting his features in sharp relief.

Yvette wanted to tell him everything. That they'd been through much, and that they had something that might be able to free him, and that he did not have to serve the Lich King any longer.

But his stillness, his cold voice... they gave her pause. Just because she still had shreds of her self didn't mean Antoine still did.

"Have you come to kill us?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

There was more silence. It gave Yvette some hope – he had been sent to kill them. He could start on that at any moment, but he hadn't. Perhaps if he was able to rebel from the Lich King on his own, he would cast Antoine off as he had cast of so many other Death Knights, having little use for unruly soldiers. They had the most free will of any Scourge soldier. It was part of what made them so deadly. Yvette wondered if it was exhausting to control too many at once, and if that had contributed in part to her release.

"I don't want to fight you, Antoine," Yvette said, "It doesn't have to be like this."

"The Lich King wills it," Antoine said.

She strained to hear anything else in his voice, any doubt or hint of doubt, but she could hear nothing. Perhaps he feared being struck down, so close to Icecrown. Yvette could understand that. Some small part of her wondered if she would just crumple in front of the Lich King, mind no longer able to withstand any influence.

"What do _you_ will?" she asked him.

"Look out!" Edgar exclaimed, pulling on her arm. Yvette didn't glare at him, and instead looked up to what he was pointing at. This was hardly the time for the oldest trick in the book!

She only had seconds to encase herself, Edgar and Tegan in a bubble of anti-magic as the fireball exploded in the clearing, searing away much of the Scourge presence. The ground shook as a doomguard landed in the crater, and the sounds of more demons plowing their way through the trees began to reach them.

Yvette only had a moment to look for Antoine – he was fine, standing toe to hoof with the doomguard – but they couldn't stay. They couldn't wait for things to sort out. She grabbed Edgar and slung him over her shoulder, the rough motion jostling Tegan. Sparing a thought for her helmet, Yvette decided to leave it. She'd made it this far without it.

The baby began to cry.

It seemed as though all eyes were drawn to it, the demon's eyes narrowing instead of widening in surprise. Not good.

Her steed erupted from the shadow realm with a hollow whinny and she leapt up on its back. It reared up, sensing the living flesh, hating it, but she gave it no quarter.

"Go," she urged it, "_Go_."

Yvette looked over her shoulder as the angry shadow steed launched itself away from the charred ground and twitching corpses. The doomguard had turned to pursue them, but Antoine stopped it. Engaged it in battle.

Gave her time to get away.

"Can I at least sit on the saddle!?" Edgar squeaked.

"No!" Yvette snapped, "If you think_ my_ touch burns, every part of this horse is from the shadow realm. Don't touch it."

They rode hard, in silence, Tegan eventually being lulled into sleep by the steady gallop.

"Yvette?"

"What, Edgar?"

"What just happened?"

Yvette was wondering that herself. She'd been trying to get through to her brother (_her brother wasn't dead!_), and the doomguard had crashed into the clearing. He'd had back up, but it had been on foot, like the rest of Antoine's back up.

Antoine had stayed behind to distract the massive demon, letting them make their escape. She wanted to go back and check on him, to be certain he was all right, to bring him with her, but that was foolish. If he had potentially sacrificed himself for her (_not her sweet, gentle Antoine, please, not again_) she didn't want to squander it.

"My brother just helped us escape the Legion," Yvette said, "I imagine the Legion was following the Scourge following us."

"Wonderful," Edgar said wearily, "I'm... I'm sorry about Antoine. That we had to leave him."

"He is a Death Knight now," Yvette said in a biting tone, "He will not fall so easily."

"I hope you're right," he sighed.

"Whatever happens at that skirmish, it isn't the end, Edgar," she said, "They're after us. They'll keep looking."

"Do we have any chance now? Of getting away?" Edgar asked her. There was heavy doubt in his voice that she hadn't heard before. Seeing the demon had shaken him a great deal.

"It's slim," Yvette said, "But not impossible. If we don't stop, we might make it."

"I don't know how long I can do think draped over your shoulder," he said, quickly reforming his statement, "If it's life or death I'll manage."

"I'll see what I can do, Edgar," Yvette said.

As the shadow steed devoured the ground with its fiery hooves, Yvette reeled. Antoine! She'd cut him down, sworn an oath on his grave, and moments ago she'd been speaking with him. Mostly him. Some of it was the Lich King, she knew. She couldn't fool herself.

But it had been him, in the end. Unable to outright kill her. Unable to do what she'd done so easily, without minions or the full wrath of the Lich King behind her.

Sweet, gentle Antoine. He did not deserve the torment, the hunger, the _horror _that came with being a Death Knight. When he'd lost his ability to paint it had nearly destroyed him. He'd taken more to being a soldier then, and they'd joined the Argent Dawn once they'd trained enough. Antoine had been different then, subdued, less than himself. She understood, though. Without his painting, what was he other than a career soldier?

Even reduced, though, he had still been Antoine. She could still make him smile, make him laugh, give him some happiness.

It was for Antoine that she worked up through the ranks, having every intention of putting him in positions that wouldn't drain him. She'd taught him embroidery in their spare time. He'd taken to that. His fingers were still deft, still able to create.

Yvette remembered when he'd presented her with a dress for her birthday, embroidered like one she'd used to wear all the time. She'd been in full armor, covered in ghoul, and they'd both laughed at the sudden absurdity.

She'd worn it anyway.

Seeing her in it had made him sad for better days.

She did not wear it again.

He had been a fair soldier, assigned to patrol Light's Hope or babysit the Bulwark by her when she'd become his commanding officer. Easy things. Things that kept him out of battle and out of immediate danger.

It was always Antoine who would fret at home. She would ask him if he wanted to know what she'd done that day. He never did.

Antoine.

Antoine was _still alive_.

She made him a new, silent promise. Once she'd seen Edgar and the troll to safety, she would wade back into Northrend and drag him out herself. _Together_, they would take their revenge.

Take revenge for every night her brother had shook with sobs, lamenting tears that would never come, mourning skills he would never have back. For every day she watched him wince as he buried his sword into a zombie. For the look in his eyes when she'd killed him without hesitation.

With Antoine at her side, revenge would be twice as sweet.


	8. Chapter 8

Sleep didn't come easily to Anne these days. Countless plans of actions marched through her head, each one demanding equal footing for her approval. Worry for Edgar plagued her, her mind thinking of increasingly more creative ways for him to be in peril.

Edgar wasn't helpless. He could fight with the best of them. Strategy and leadership didn't come easily to him, his easygoing nature lending itself to someone who followed orders instead of giving them. There was nothing wrong with that, in Anne's eyes. If she had no one to give orders too, it would make her rank... her _past _rank... rather moot.

What if she_ did_ find him? What then? Begging her job back from Varimathras was not an idea she savored, and to further that point, it was a stretch to assume she hadn't already been replaced. Anne hadn't even known what had happened to the man _she'd_ replaced. She hadn't asked.

She didn't ask questions she'd rather not know the answer too.

The sun had only barely began to peek over the horizon when she relented and got up from bed. If she wasn't going to sleep, she might as well get started preparing their plans. Ivan was going to be a problem, but the fact that Makenzie had been rather deliberately abducted suggested to her that she wasn't in immediate danger. Still_ in_ danger, but if the Legion didn't outright kill someone, it was because they had a use. The fact that the warlock had stabbed a dreadlord multiple times with a jagged plank of wood told her that she possessed a strong will, so she wouldn't break quickly.

It was a bit cold (_extremely cold, inhuman_) but they had to make priorities. Edgar had been abducted by a Death Knight, and they'd gone into the frozen continent, not directly to Vengeance Landing. Something was wrong, and Edgar needed her help, and she'd be damned if she didn't do her best to deliver.

No one else was up yet, staying in their warm beds, deluding themselves into thinking that the sun would warm things. The only exception was the Innkeeper, who smiled at her and offered her a cup of coffee. They'd made their mission clear, rescuing lost comrades, and though their group wasn't able to offer any more resources, the others were at least encouraging.

Anne accepted the coffee and went outside, letting the frigid air scour away any residual drowsiness she might've had. The coffee helped, too, and Anne grimaced at its strength. In retrospect, she should've at least asked for some sugar. It was warm, and it had quite a kick, so she couldn't complain too much.

The zeppelin was still moored to the tower. Anne blinked and went to inspect, nodding at the guards that flanked the entrance to the tower. She'd approved them herself, and though they now knew she was no longer their superior, they saluted her anyway. Force of habit.

When she stepped out onto the landing, an annoyed goblin shooed her.

"No tourists," he snapped at her.

"Why haven't you left yet?" Anne wondered, ignoring his rude presumption. The only difference between Goblins and the Forsaken, she thought, was that goblin skin was naturally green.

He narrowed his eyes at her slightly, perhaps considering a lie, or requesting a bribe, but as he studied her he finally recognized her. She'd paid his crew a very handsome sum. The goblin's scowl smoothed out into a terse smile and he gestured out to the sky.

"We've been informed of gargoyle sightings," he said, "I'm not leaving if they're hovering around, especially since I still haven't been given a security detail from the Undercity."

"I see," Anne said, feeling a leap of hope, "Did they give you specifics?"

"Well yes, but-"

"I can just go ask the field commander here. All you'll be costing me is my time."

The goblin studied her, keen eyes calculating, but after some consideration it decided she was telling the truth. He gestured off to the Northeast.

"Mostly there. They're not visible from here, but scouts have spotted them. Search patterns, most likely, but I'm not taking any risks. The Cartel wasn't at all happy about what happened to the last zeppelin and I'm not going to have it on my record," he told her crisply.

"You won't have much of a record if your dead," Anne pointed out dryly, sipping her rapidly cooling coffee.

"My family would," the goblin said shortly, "Anyway, we'll send word to you as soon as we're in the clear. I'd just sit tight for now. Good thing you bought that extra cargo space eh?"

Anne shook her head and headed back down the tower, pausing to dump the rest of the cold, bitter coffee on the ground before heading back inside. She thanked the Innkeeper for the drink, declined another cup, and unfurled her map. Search patterns.

Searching for a Death Knight they'd failed to capture, perhaps?

It was a long shot, but it was also too much of a coincidence for her to ignore. From the coast, they could go up, backtrack along the cliffs that overlooked the coast and try to pick up a trail there. Or, confident that there would be further inland, they could travel the border of the Howling Fjord and hope they ran into something, maybe even spot one of the gargoyle patrols.

For the first time since she'd set out, Anne felt real hope. She'd just have to convince the others of it. More specifically, she supposed, she would have to convince Ivan. For how much his friends and brother seemed to malign him, they seemed quite inclined to follow his lead. Anne had been game to name Murdok the unspoken leader of their little group at first, but that had been wishful thinking on her part. Ivan wasn't charismatic by any means, but he had drive and purpose, no matter how selfish and obvious it was. He was the sort of person it was easy to follow, and even easier to blame mishaps on.

_You won't be able to stop laughing when I tell you about this lot, Edgar_, Anne thought fondly, carefully plotting a course that would take them up through the fjord and towards Icecrown.

If the Scourge was searching for the Death Knight, then it implied Yvette hadn't wanted to be found. It didn't match up with the fact that she hadn't come straight in. If the Scourge was trying to find her – and Anne doubted the Death Knight was lost – why had she headed further inland? Perhaps it had something to do with the Burning Legion. Did they have some secret base near the heart of the Lich King's power? That seemed doubtful.

Her expression twisted into a grim, perplexed one, but she didn't allow the hope to fizzle. Whatever was going on, Edgar was alive, and she _would_ find him.

"Good morning," Igor addressed from across the table. Anne looked up with a start and he offered her a small smile, blowing on a mug of coffee.

Anne offered him a nod and raised an eyebrow before looking back down at her map, "That's one step down from goblin rocket fuel. I hope you added sugar."

A cough of dismay told her a moment later that he hadn't and she sat back, glancing at the stairs. No one else had joined them yet.

"We can just wake up Ivan when we're ready to go," Igor said, the barest hint of disdain in his soft voice, "Otherwise he'll sleep in until noon."

"Did he stay up late?" Anne wondered. All of them had cashed in fairly early as far as she had been aware.

"He always does," Igor said, "And if he's up early, he'll just be laying there avoiding everything."

"Whatever keeps him going," she replied, non-committal. On some level, she understood why Igor harbored a deep dislike for his brother. She wasn't particularly fond of Ivan after the scant few days they'd spent together. Even so, to have family was a rare thing. Not exceptionally rare, but rare enough that she imagined herself in Igor's situation making the best of it. If they truly hated each other, they wouldn't be here in Northrend looking for Ivan's... companion.

Makenzie was still something of a mystery to her. She meant enough to four temperamental people to warrant a great deal of personal risk, meant enough to Ivan to be worth a 'disembarking fee' to the tune of five hundred gold.

It wasn't fair to put a price on his affection, she supposed. She had paid far more than five hundred gold to book the passage. And if she'd had more to give, she would have paid that.

Not knowing her would put a strain on her pitch to find Edgar first. Being ignorant of Makenzie's apparent worth might not sit well with all of them, Ivan especially. She hoped they would see her reasoning.

Shalar'zahn joined them next, and she amused herself by counting backwards from twenty. Murdok came down at exactly twenty, and both of them ordered breakfast. By the time Ivan came down, there was a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on the table, and Ivan passed on the caustic beverage.

Anne relented to a small breakfast as well, noting how the idle small talk had dried up once Ivan joined them. There was a tense silence now, everyone waiting for either Anne or Ivan to announce their intentions. It irritated her, on some level, but she was sure it was her worry and lack of sleep talking. They were as invested in Edgar as she was in Makenzie, and they outnumbered her four to one.

If this was where they drew a line, she would deal with it. It would make all her effort to bring them along with her moot, but she'd come too far now to regroup. Besides, she didn't have enough money to pay for more mercenaries – this lot was working for free.

_That's enough,_ she thought to herself. Defeating herself before she'd even spoken was counterproductive at best. Perhaps she'd get another pleasant surprise.

"I found out this morning that the zeppelin is still here," Anne said. She might as well preface her plan with recent information.

"Yah?" Murdok said, frowning. It was difficult to tell around his massive tusks, but the frown had spread to his voice as well.

"There have been gargoyle sightings," Anne nodded, "So they're staying moored until they get an all clear, or until they're assigned a security detail."

"They're going to be here awhile," Ivan commented, "Why _wouldn't_ the Lich King be keeping an eye on this place?"

"That's beside the point," Anne said, "They're flying in search patterns. Looking for someone. My guess is Yvette Brack, their original target-"

"How do you know they were targeting the Death Knight to begin with?" Ivan interrupted. Their eyes met, and she could immediately tell he wouldn't be moved. He'd go looking for Makenzie on his own, if necessary, and she could only hope he wouldn't drag the rest of them with them.

No surprises there.

"I don't for sure," Anne said, "But it's more than a coincidence, I'd say. If they attacked the zeppelin with the Death Knight on it, it's not a far stretch to assume they didn't get her and are looking to rectify that. If the Scourge has reason to believe she survived the crash-"

"So we'd be running into Scourge forces?"

"We _are_ in Northrend," the soldier said dryly, "That was a risk from the start. Apparently, the Burning Legion, too."

Ivan shifted his jaw but didn't break eye contact. The warlock had likely been hoping she wouldn't use that to refute his own protests, but it didn't throw him off of his game, either.

"What have you planned, Anne?" Igor asked politely. The trolls were noticeably silent, though she wasn't paying enough attention to them to note if they were sharing looks or not.

"To go up the cliffs and go up along the Northeast border of the fjord, towards the Grizzly Hills," Anne said, laying her map out again and tracing her finger along the path, "It's where the gargoyles have been sighted, so it's a solid lead."

"So is the wreckage," Ivan needled.

"Ivan, unless Murdok is able to track things in the air, we can't learn much more from the wreckage," Anne replied, unable to stop irritation from creeping into her voice.

"We only looked for half a day at most," he frowned, fiddling idly with an undrunk coffee, "I'm sure there's more to find."

Anne flicked a look at Murdok, whose response was to shrug slightly and gesture to Ivan, conceding that the warlock had a point. Not a very good point, in her opinion, but still a point.

"If the Scourge is looking for Yvette and Edgar, we have a limited time frame," Anne said.

"Makenzie's been kidnapped by a dreadlord," Ivan said. His claw-like fingers made a _tink tink tink tink_ as he drummed them against the abandoned mug. She had an urge to grab his wrists, to make him stop, but that was possibly his goal. Anne wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"We can't do two things at once," Anne said, "Makenzie has already been captured. Edgar hasn't."

"If he's alive."

"He _is_."

"Mebbe we split up," Shalar'zahn interjected, "We came tah find two people. We'll jes' look for bot' a dem at once."

"Even with five we'd be hard pressed to stand up to a sizable Scourge _or _Legion force," Anne frowned, "And if we split up, one group will only have two."

"Dey only _lookin'_ fo' yah husand an' de Death Knight," Murdok pointed out, "Won' be many actually millin' 'round."

"So, is that what you're all backing?" Anne asked. Even though she'd been partially prepared for it, being confronted with it was a different matter, "Splitting up?"

"We undahstand yah needin' tah find yah husband," Shalar'zahn said, at least pretending to speak gently. Anne wished she'd skip it, "Makenzie is our fren', an' if she be in trouble, we owe her."

Murdok only nodded, while Ivan leaned back in his chair.

_Tink tink tink tink tink._

"If this was your plan for the start, I would have appreciated knowing," Anne said. Part of the reason the passage she'd booked was so dear was because it was for _five_ people. Though part of her was fine with them finding their friend, she certainly would've preferred they paid their own freight.

Adventurers were all the same, weren't they? Freeloaders at their core.

"I'll go with you, Anne," Igor spoke up, making her eyebrows nearly crawl off of her forehead.

"What?" Ivan said sharply.

"We agreed to come out here and help her, not just ourselves," Igor said, not looking at anyone, "You three will be able to find Makenzie, I'm sure. Anne shouldn't have to ride into Northrend by herself."

His twin looked more than slightly unsettled by his statement, and if she hadn't already been immensely surprised by Igor's offer... well. She'd gotten a pleasant surprise, anyway, even if it wasn't the one she'd been hoping for.

"Dat seems best," Shalar'zahn said, offering Igor a nod and a thin smile, "We meet up aftah eh? Mebbe we grab Makenzie firs', catch up wit' yah."

"Maybe," Igor smiled. He didn't look convinced, not in full, and the fact wasn't lost on Ivan. Ivan, however, had been stricken silent. For as much as he'd obviously planned out this split, he hadn't counted on his twin to side with her.

It was a small consolation. She wouldn't have Murdok's tracking or Ivan's destructive power at her disposal. Whatever it was Shalar'zahn actually did, she couldn't say, but she was capable at least. Reasonable, when she wasn't snapping at Murdok.

"I'll get the horse ready," she said, standing up. They could say their goodbyes while she prepared – they'd wasted enough time arguing the morning away.

Anne considered taking extra time saddling up her warhorse, stocking supplies, but thought against it. It wasn't as though this was the last they'd seen of each other. If they ran into trouble, they could always retreat to Vengeance Landing. Both shadow hunters and priests were known for their healing abilities, though priests more so. Hopefully their firepower would make up for not having Igor along.

When she returned to the inn, only the trolls remained in the common area. A few more Forsaken had filtered down as well.

"Where's Igor?" Anne scowled.

"Dey went tah have a talk," Murdok said.

"A talk," Anne replied flatly, torn between waiting with the trolls and going to find Igor and Ivan, "Do you think they should be doing that without supervision?"

Shalar'zahn laughed and Murdok smirked.

"I t'ink dey got all dat outta 'dere system's yestaday," Shalar'zahn said, "Gotta work up a bit more tah de next one."

Sighing in exasperation was what she wanted to do, but instead she joined the trolls again. If they were having an honest brother-to-brother talk, she couldn't fault them. They'd been through a lot. Not knowing what they were talking about made her uneasy, though. What if Ivan was talking Igor out of going with her? Igor had said himself that he let Ivan push him around. Just because he was self aware didn't mean he wouldn't still let it happen.

Just when she started to get impatient, Igor ducked inside. He was apparently looking for Anne, because he gave her a small wave when she stood.

"I saw the horse outside," he said, "We went around back to talk. I'm ready to go."

He seemed to be intact. Not bleeding, anyway, and no fresh blood on his furs to suggested he'd just healed a blow. Anne nodded and stood, the trolls following along with her.

Awkward was how Anne would describe the gathering. The trolls seemed unclear on how they were supposed to respond, perhaps at odds with what anything they said might effect. If they bid Igor farewell without much ado, Igor might take it badly. And if they made something of a big deal that Igor was going along with Anne, perhaps implying he would be in too much danger, they risked angering Ivan.

As for Ivan, his expression had gone stony again, like it had when they'd had their fight.

"You had better protect my brother," Ivan growled as she swung up into the saddle.

Surprised (pleasantly) by the request, Anne smiled and nodded, "Like he was my own, Ivan."

Igor shrugged a bit helplessly at Anne and faced his brother, offering him his hand. The warlock looked at it, back at Igor, back at the hand. Whatever they'd talked about, it had effected Ivan on a deeper level that Anne had been dubious he possessed.

"Be careful," Ivan finally said, giving his brother's hand a squeeze.

"I will," Igor said. He offered his twin a soft smile, though it faded when Ivan suddenly jerked him closer, into a tight hug.

"You'd better," Ivan muttered into his shoulder, eyes shut, practically lifting his brother off his feet.

Anne blinked rapidly, daring to glance at the trolls. Murdok had pulled up his face mask, so his expression was unreadable. Shalar'zahn likely represented both of them, though, with her slack jaw and wide eyes. Nobody had seen_ that_ coming. Not even Igor.

Ivan released Igor after a moment and gave him a bit of a shove, not looking at him.

"Better get going," he said gruffly, swiping the underside of his nose with his wrist. Igor goggled at his brother and nodded, allowing Anne to half pull him up.

"Good luck," Anne said.

"Same to yah bot'," Murdok managed. Anne didn't linger any longer, turning her charger towards the cliff face and urging it forward. She hated long goodbyes.

Igor was silent as they galloped for the cliff. Still mulling over the fact that his asshole brother had actually hugged him, she'd wager. The path up the cliff was treacherous at best, and she imagined they'd put in a lift sooner or later. For now, she was grateful for the innate grace of her warhorse – she had been very lucky to get one as well mannered as she did.

Once they'd reached the topped, she paused a moment, allowing the massive vista to sink in. It was rather beautiful, all things considered, the unspoiled wilderness. Looming on the horizon was Utgarde Keep, however, a grim reminder of the vicious people who populated the fjord.

They could sight see as they rode.

Anne urged her mount onwards again, turning her head slightly so she could see Igor over her shoulder.

"What did you two talk about?" she wondered.

Igor seemed reluctant to speak. Anne couldn't blame him – they were still largely strangers – but if she didn't distract herself from worrying, she'd drive herself mad.

"He said he was sorry," Igor said. His reluctance continued, but she pretended not to notice it. If he really didn't want to talk about it, he wouldn't.

"For what?"

"For everything," the priest said, voice so soft that the wind practically stole the words away, "He didn't... if anything happened to us, or to him, he wouldn't want things to end without having said he was sorry."

"Did he mean it?" Anne wondered, making sure her tone made the question pointed. True enough, she hadn't been there to hear it, but Ivan hadn't been very inclined to apologize yesterday. Maybe having an audience had been part of that.

"I think so," Igor said, offering her a small shrug, "As much as he can. It's always been... he's always been the strong one. When father died, mother didn't take it well. If it weren't for Ivan..."

The priest sighed, irritable, and adjusted his position in the saddle to keep from saying more. It didn't happen often, but Anne found herself envying his knowledge of his past. In her experience, those who could remember what they'd lost tended to be edgier. More unstable. Less inclined to get along with their own kind. Their _new _kind, more specifically. Remembering their humanity only made undeath more unbearable. Too some. In rare cases, life had been bad enough that unlife was an improvement. That seemed to be the case with Igor and Ivan, or at least, it was from what little she knew of them.

"I know you don't think much of my brother, Anne," the priest said, "But he does know how to care about people. He just doesn't know how to show it. If it hadn't been for Makenzie, we probably would've killed each other a few years ago."

Anne shook her head a little and faced forward, smirking. After so much build up, she certainly hoped Makenzie lived up to her hype. Shalar'zahn had mentioned owing her life to the female warlock. Murdok counted her as a friend. Igor had nothing but kind things to say about her, and Ivan... she'd rather not consider the reason she had assumed Ivan liked her. He cared about her on_ some_ level. Best leave it there.

"She's really something, huh?" Anne said. She wasn't being coy about her baiting by any stretch – their little group seemed far more tight knit than she'd originally thought. A sort of dysfunctional family, in which Ivan and Makenzie had been the unspoken heads. Igor filled the roll of soft-spoken child. The trolls... a crazy aunt and a shady uncle.

"To us, she is," was Igor's sideways reply. Anne decided she'd leave it there. They might be together for quite awhile, and she didn't want to strain their tenuous relationship.

"Thank you for coming with me, Igor," she said after a long silence, "I'll make sure you get back to your brother in one piece."

"He'll hold you to that," Igor said, laughing slightly, "I'd be inclined to hold you to that, too. I'll do my best to return the favor."

"Sounds like a deal," Anne replied.

* * *

Sharing a raptor with Murdok brought many memories to the surface. Most of them, if she was honest with herself, were pleasant ones. Long nights tangled in each other's arms. Long _days_ of the same. Even in his layers of furs he still had his unique scent, a mixture of sweat and leather that she didn't find unpleasant.

Every soft tender moment they had, every laugh they'd shared... everything had been destroyed in a day. By _him_. It was _his_ fault. The things he'd said to her in the heat of that moment had cut deep, made deeper by her assumption that he'd be _glad _she'd even survived the ordeal.

Their relationship had ended without a single word spoken by her. Not after the things he'd said. She couldn't even bear to look at him. Everything inside of her had screamed to hate him, but it hadn't been instant. She'd had to cultivate it. Work at it.

Sitting so snugly behind him as they bobbed along the beach was toying rather unpleasantly with her. When they'd rode together, she'd automatically lean her head on his broad back, arms wrapped around his chest. Shalar'zahn had to fight_ not _to do that, and the fact that it would have made her warmer in the miserable cold didn't help. Small talk hadn't been natural for them when they'd been together. No trolls were, though they'd begun to cultivate the talent the longer they stayed allied with the Horde.

Small talk would have made it more bearable. If they had some way to pretend nothing had happened between them, some way to put it aside...

No. It wouldn't be enough.

Seeing Ivan hug his twin, the same twin he'd decked so many times, had struck a chord in her. If they could reconcile, after all the horrible things they'd said to each other (mostly Ivan, but to be fair, though Igor was no slouch at slinging insults), then surely there was _some_ hope...

_Can't evah fo'give him, Shalar'zahn_, she chastised herself harshly, catching her head from resting on Murdok's shoulder, _Hurt yah so bad it still be bleedin'_.

"Dere be de wreck," Murdok said. She could see it clearly, and she was reminded of small talk. He was better at it than she was, spending more time amongst orcs and Forsaken. Not that orcs were all that great with small talk, but they were a far cry better than trolls.

Why point out the wreck, though? Was he trying to lure her out? Part of her thought that he might've been moved by the twin's hug as well, but that was no consolation. He'd waited too long for any sort of blundering apology to have effect.

She owed it to Makenzie. A life for a life. They'd be square, after this. No more teaming up to save anyone else.

"Yah," Shalar'zahn grunted after what she knew was far too long of a pause. She didn't care. He ought to know, to _always_ know, that she was unhappy in his presence.

He took the hint, at least, and they rode in silence. It wasn't until they'd passed the cave they found the crazed sin'dorei in that Murdok stopped, sliding off the raptor.

"Jes' given' him a break," he muttered, slapping the raptor's flank affectionately. Shalar'zahn grunted and slid off, approaching the shoreline. The cold made the sand seem like jagged boulders, so she was cautious not to dip her toes in the surf despite the temptation. It made her a bit homesick for her hut on the Echo Isles and she sighed.

She wrapped her arms around herself to keep warm, shrugging her shoulders up. When she'd heard Makenzie was in trouble, no matter who she'd have to put up with to do so, she'd been ready to help. Without the warlock's timely intervention, she wouldn't be standing in chilly sand on the roof of the world. Perhaps it was an uncomfortable place to be, but it was better than dead.

"'Zahn?" Murdok asked. She started a little, normally sharp senses dulled by layers of fur and introspection. Shalar'zahn turned her head to regard him, noting that he'd driven some driftwood into the ground and tied his raptor's reins to it. It wouldn't hold the reptile if it actually wanted to go anywhere, but it seemed to take the hint, idly sniffing the air.

"Yah? You find sometin'?" she asked. He'd pulled down his face mask and lowered his hood, and so she could plainly see his guilty expression.

"We ain't gonna find not'in out here," Murdok said, "Ivan needed some time tah work t'ings out. An' I t'ink mebbe we do too."

Shalar'zahn stared at Murdok for a moment. Work things out? He wanted to _work things out?_

Before she even knew what she was doing, she'd thrown a punch at him, catching him in the side of the face and sending him staggering. He recovered quickly, but only put up his arms against any future attacks, expression resolved. Grim, even. How _dare_ he presume to make himself a victim!?

"Yah weren't keen tah work t'ings out a year ago!" Shalar'zahn snarled at him, giving him another rough shove when he lowered his hands slightly. She wanted to do much, much worse than punch him. She shouldn't have aimed for the face, either, "Where was dis understandin' when I needed it, eh!? When I was almos' dead!?"

"'Zahn, please," he said, making a placating gesture, "Dat be behind us now-"

"Don' you _dare_," she seethed, body tensing. Shalar'zhan felt like she did when she was about to pounce, to make a kill, her entire being charged with deadly intent, "Don' you dare say dat, Murdok. Yah _know_ whatya did tah me!"

"You sayin' I di'in' 'ave no right tah what I felt?" he asked, brow creasing, "What _you_ did-"

Magic, even Loa magic, was learned. It did not come naturally. Even the most open of trolls had to attune themselves. It was for this reason Shalar'zahn did not retaliate with violent magics when incensed. When she lunged at him, it was with the intent of clawing his eyes out the old fashioned way.

Murdok was ready for her this time, catching her wrists, squeezing them just enough to make her wish she hadn't lunged at all. Their faces were inches from each other, and she could feel his breath, smell the tang of fresh blood in his mouth. Her own eyes burned with unfathomable rage and hurt.

His mirrored hers for a moment. Then, it seemed to fade to only hurt. Shalar'zahn hoped viciously that hers did not do the same.

"I was only tryin' tah undo what you an' Ivan did," Shalar'zahn growled, talking through her teeth, "Wasn't right. I don' care 'ow much we was goin' t'get outta it."

"We was gonna 'ave a _family_, 'Zahn!" Murdok protested in a tangle of fervor and uncertainty, "If yah'd jest gone 'long wit' me an' Ivan-"

She could still see it vividly in her mind. Could still remember the inside of the rather well appointed Arakkoa home. They'd been looking for scrolls for some sort of summoning ritual (Ivan had all the details of course, far too busy scheming to explain them all). It had been a grueling month in Skettis, and they'd acted impulsively, attacking the talonpriest in the middle of the night.

The talonpriest's family had been home, or at least, a start of one. In the crossfire, attempting to subdue the talonpriest and interrogate him, his wife and their eggs had been seriously hurt. A troll had been rather bodily flung into the nest, outright crushing some, cracking others. The wife, trying to aide her husband and defend her eggs, had taken a not-so-accidental dose of shadow from Ivan for attempting to attack Makenzie. It had been a complete disaster.

Ivan and Murdok hadn't thought so. After a rather lengthy argument with both Arakkoa slowly bleeding to death, their surviving eggs on the brink of being damaged beyond repair, they had dragged the talonpriest out of the room under the pretense of compromise – they would just interrogate him away from his wife, leaving Igor and Shalar'zahn to deal with the aftermath.

Makenzie had been uncertain of what to do, torn between doing whatever Ivan did, and doing what she knew was right. She'd stayed behind with Igor and Shalar'zahn in the interim, watching them.

The bird woman would not let Igor approach her, spitting and crowing viciously despite her grievous wounds, despite the fact that many of her hatchlings would never emerge from their shells if she continued to refuse help.

So Shalar'zahn had tried. She wasn't any great supporter of the Arrakoa, but only the night before she and Murdok had been dreamily discussing their plans after they finished with Skettis. As one prospective mother to another, she'd thought she owed her to help. It was what the spirits wanted.

And as soon as she'd gotten close, the wretched bird had grabbed her, shrieking that the troll would join her and her children in death. Shalar'zahn could still remember the agony of the curse as it wracked her body from the inside out, withering her insides and making them useless.

If it hadn't of been for Makenzie yanking her away (and subsequently incinerating the Arrakoa afterwards) the shadow hunter would have been a withered, dead husk. She had still been in terrible agony, certain that she would die at any moment the pain was so great.

All their prospective riches and glory had evaporated then. They rushed Shalar'zahn back to the base camp and Igor tried his best to heal her all the way through. The damage had been too severe, however, the grief stricken Arrakoa having targeted her uterus first before radiating out to her other organs and the rest of her body.

When she was well enough, Igor told her what had happened, and she'd been crushed. She still was. So much of her future had involved the children she'd have with Murdok. Teaching them the ways of the spirits, of the hunt, of the Darkspear. They would never have that now, and her soul still resonated with that terrible ache she'd felt.

Then, Murdok had found out. He'd come in. She'd burst into tears of relief when she saw him again, reaching for him, _needing_ him.

He'd slapped her hands away.

_"How could yah 'ave been so stupid!?"_ he'd shouted at her through his own tears, _"Whatta 'bout our plans!? Shoulda jes' lissened to me! Shoulda jes' left things be, 'Zahn!"_

She would have rather been killed than to have heard those words come out of his mouth. Even now she hated herself for attempting to make excuses for him. He had been upset, and troll males weren't well known for their emotional coping skills. Murdok had no family. His parents and siblings had been killed in the war. Having a family with Shalar'zahn had been a dream of his for quite some time. Combined with almost losing her, and her sudden outpouring of emotion, her neediness had been too much. He'd lashed out at the person who'd needed his support the most.

His words had rendered her silent. They had stared at each other, tears still streaking both of their faces as the words clawed their way into each others hearts. He might as well have stormed into the room and stabbed her.

"What you an' Ivan was doin' den was _wrong_, Murdok," she said icily, "Mebbe 'dem birdmen was upta no good, but dat talonpriest's missus and babies weren't. Yah were outta line!"

"I jes' wanted tah make sure I had a stake t' pr'vide fo' yah an'... it was fo a good cause!" Murdok spluttered, his hands tightening painfully on her wrists as she tried to wrench them away.

"All yah pr'vided was a chance fah somet'in' bad tah happen!" she said, "Why can'tya undahstand dat!?"

"I shouldn'ta said what I did," Murdok said, his frustration building, "A'ight?"

"Dat ain't gonna undo dat you did!" she shouted back. Shalar'zahn kicked at him viciously, and he responded by spilling her on her back, pinning her whole body with his. She growled deep in her throat, allowing her fingernails to dig into his skin where she could reach.

"I be sorreh, Shalar'zahn," he said tightly, searching her face for something she prayed fervently he didn't find, "Yah still mean everyt'in' tah me. Don't ya b'lieve dat?"

"Why di'n't yah say dat?" she choked, "Why you leave me tah try an' hate yah all dis time!? Gotta wait 'til yah got an excuse tah!? How I know dat when I need ya, ya won't jes' leave me t'tha wolves again!?"

Oh, she wanted to believe him. Her entire body ached to believe him. Her spirit cried out for him – she had savaged that piece of her that needed him so badly, left it in tatters, and despite her efforts, it had never healed.

Shalar'zahn hated him for what he'd done to her. What he'd said then, at such a crucial time, had been unfathomably cruel. He regretted it all this time, and only apologized _now?_ Only apologized after it became clear _she_ would not take the blame?

So she kissed him. Passionately. _Urgently_. Shalar'zahn burned for him, for his scent, for his touch. He was completely worthless with his feelings, with his handling of her and their relationship, and she couldn't possibly live without him another second.

He returned the kiss with fervor, hands almost instantly detaching from her wrists and reattaching themselves to her backside, pressing her closer to him. It was such an easy thing to fall back into. They'd certainly never had trouble falling into bed together. Rarely was it an issue for any troll.

Her hands moved to his tusks, gripping them, keeping him from daring to move away from her before she was through. Shalar'zahn shouldn't forgive him. It didn't matter how deviously clever he was, how distractingly handsome he was, how talented a lover he was – he had not been there when she'd needed him. For a full year she had tried to hate him, and apparently, it had been for naught.

"_He'll come around,"_ Makenzie had tried to console her later, _"I'm sure he didn't mean it. He was just __speaking from his dick instead of his heart. You'll see."_

She hadn't _wanted_ to see, though. She wasn't like Makenzie, who just let Ivan's disgusting comments and rude behavior roll off of her with an understanding shrug. Sometimes she would secretly be embarrassed by her acceptance of Ivan's behavior. Ivan was a self-centered pig. If she forgave Murdok, by proxy, she would be excusing Ivan's foul demeanor as well. The idea was rather offensive on many levels.

"I won' evah hurt yah 'gain, 'Zahn," Murdok breathed, "I t'ink mebbe I rathe' be dead dan 'ave you hate me anymore. Promise yah."

Her hands were shaking (_it was quite cold on the ground, that must've been it_) and she steadied them on his cheeks, studying his face as her heart thundered in her chest. He wasn't Ivan. There were actually redeeming qualities beneath his skin, a rational man somewhere in his brain. Most importantly, there was someone who _loved_ her in his heart.

"Yah betta'," Shalar'zahn said. On the cold, sandy beach of the Howling Fjord, against all her better judgment, she accepted his apology.

* * *

Ivan had waited a little while after the trolls had left before he went looking for Geralthus Cloudfall. The zeppelin was still moored, and so the sin'dorei didn't have many places he could go. He couldn't leave, and he couldn't avoid the inn forever, but he'd managed well so far.

He had every intention of making a game plan while Murdok and Shalar'zahn went to find more clues about Makenzie's abduction. A more thorough inspection of the crash site, Murdok guessed, might reveal more about her attacker. In their haste to follow the sin'dorei's trail, perhaps they'd missed more blood spatters.

Geralthus was lurking around the stables, the nervous blood elf muttering to himself, perhaps wandering aimlessly. He'd obviously been of fragile mind before the crash, though Ivan suspected it was seeing the dreadlord that had ultimately broke him. Ivan had considered the notion that the dreadlord had modified his memory somehow, but since Ivan had no way of actually checking for that sort of thing, he'd satisfy himself by beating the hell out of him.

No spells or demons. This was _personal_. Geralthus had sat idly by, let the person who had saved his life get abducted without a struggle. Had, by his own admission, tried to shove her back out to the demon she'd been trying to escape.

"Elf," Ivan said curtly. The sin'dorei jumped and then tittered in his high pitch manner, eyes flicking around.

"Oh, you, hello," he said, "We really ought to get inside, I think. But just in case, I was looking for an escape route. You know. Something fast. I don't know if anything in these stables could out pace a dreadlord, though!"

He laughed again. Ivan tightened his hands into fists, but not here. No witnesses.

"I know something faster," Ivan lied, "It's hidden away, though."

"Oh?" the elf said, his unfocused eyes widening some, ears perking up, "Well, if you're telling me, I suppose you mean to show me. No hard feelings of course. I was only trying to survive!"

"Right," the warlock said. His jaw ticked, and he knew his eyes were hard, but the sin'dorei seemed to take no notice, "This way."

Ivan led him around to the other side of the zeppelin tower. There were no guards there, or patrols looking directly down underneath the zeppelin itself. They were on the lookout for distant threats.

"Where is it?" the elf said. His arrogance stayed with him even in madness as he looked down his delicate nose at Ivan for _daring_ to waste his time.

Ivan broke the elf's nose with one well placed swing, laying the elf out. Maybe he'd screwed up, letting Makenzie run an errand for him on her own. Maybe he'd played a large part in himself and his brother becoming Forsaken. Maybe he was a drunk, and a sleaze, and of dubious moral fucking character.

But he wasn't a_ coward _like Geralthus Cloudfall.

"You brode mah node!" the elf whined, still seeing stars and he attempted to get up. Ivan was silent, waiting until the elf was up on his hands and knees before he kicked him in the middle. Not enough to crack a rib. He'd have to try harder.

"You let it take her," the warlock said as Geralthus coughed, bending his head down a little to make sure the elf could hear him, "She saved your _life _and you _let _it _take _her!"

He punctuated every few words with a kick to the elf's middle or side, hearing a satisfying _crack_ on _take_.

"I din... I jus... jus wanned to lib!" Geralthus burbled, choking on his own blood as it clogged his nose and his throat.

"She did too!" Ivan spat, grabbing the front of the sin'dorei's robes and hauling him to his feet, "She was more alive than you've_ ever_ been, you pathetic waste of air! I'll be doing the world a _favor_ by getting rid of you! More air for everyone!"

Gerlathus blubbered. His every breath was an agony, his terror almost tangible. What had it been like for Makenzie, to have only a jagged wooden plank between her and one of the most terrible demons in the Burning Legion? His terror couldn't even compare to what that must've been like.

"Puh-leeeeeeeb," the sin'dorei begged, "Dohd kill beee...!"

Ivan shoved him away roughly and the elf staggered back, falling down with a cry and curling into a fetal ball, shivering, clutching his sides. He had killed better for less. Sympathy wasn't something that came naturally to him.

"_I'm sorry,"_ he'd said to his brother, unable to even look at Igor when he spoke, _"I've done everything wrong to you that I could possibly imagine. If it weren't for the fact that you were my brother, Igor, I __would have been dead from drink long before the Scourge were even known on Azeroth. I won't be better over night, but all I've ever wanted to do was protect you. Maybe even from me, sometimes."_

"_I forgive you," _Igor had said, using the gentle voice Ivan had always been so jealous of.

That simple. Part of him had been gleeful. Igor had always been so easy to manipulate. That part of him, however, needed to go away. He had been completely sincere, and still part of him had been eager to twist Igor's acceptance into something else. It was _wrong_.

He had to change. Makenzie or not, he had to change.

Ivan inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, letting the red at the edge of his vision fade, quelling the blood lust that demanded the elf's death. Geralthus had done a bad thing, but it didn't warrant death. It didn't really warrant a beating, in the grand scheme of things – he'd done what was right by him. In a perfect stranger, it wasn't too much to ask.

The warlock crouched down, taking at least some satisfaction in how the elf cringed and whimpered, and picked Geralthus up. He wasn't terribly gentle, slinging the elf over his shoulder, and took him back to the infirmary.

"Dark Lady preserve me, what happened to him?" a medic exclaimed, quickly calling for assistance. As they took the sin'dorei from him, hurrying him into the tent, Ivan considered his reply while the medic hovered, waiting for it.

"He made a mistake," Ivan said. She raised her eyebrows at him, but clearly didn't feel it was necessary to probe further. Ivan doubted very much that he'd made many friends around the base camp during his short stay.

With Geralthus seen too (_pathetic weakling, how could you let him live_), he had some time to spend on other things.

Makenzie had tried to summon a messenger, or at least tried to notify him using the nether. That something had responded to her ham fisted attempts so quickly meant that there was some nearby access to the nether.

If it wasn't a base, it was a portal, and any concentration of the nether strong enough to sense tremors in it would have to be in that general vicinity. There was a chance Shalar'zahn and Murdok would return with word of a portal, but if they didn't, he'd need a backup plan.

When he'd packed for the trip, half of what he'd brought had been things for Makenzie. Spoiling her had become a hobby of his, and if she asked for anything when he swept in to rescue her (_weak, pathetic, soft, your own demons will turn on you and feast_) he wanted to be able to provide it. Within reason. Or outside of reason.

He'd been stupid for a very long time, content to exploit her patience with him for a live-in supply of sex and decadence. Her 'apprenticeship' bordered servitude sometimes, the way she was happy to cater to his whims. He always compensated for it by doting on her, but now he wondered if she had just been waiting for him to come around to what she saw in him.

To see that she _loved_ him, and _that _was why she put up with him. Not his gifts or his considerable talent in the bedroom, or even his mastery of the demonic arts.

Loved him for _who _he was. Or in _spite_ of who he was.

And he loved her.

Neither of them had spoken those words. He, because he found them terrifying, and her, because she knew how badly it frightened him.

And he'd thought Geralthus was a coward.

The other half of his packing had been tomes. Anne had looked less than amused by them, but he wouldn't expect much else from a soldier. He did not have a photographic memory. Some rituals were far too complex and delicate to commit to memory, not to mention situational.

Finding Makenzie would take real application of his skill, and just as he wanted to offer her every comfort he could, he would use every resource he had to find her.

He was lost in his tomes when Shalar'zahn and Murdok finally returned. Despite their lengthy absence, they'd found nothing. Ivan thought the sand on their clothes and stuck in their hair was rather suspicious, but their attitudes towards each other seemed the same. He'd heard what Murdok had said to her after she'd been damaged by the Arakkoa curse, and even_ he_ had cringed. Murdok hadn't really meant it, but that hadn't mattered at the time.

"Yah find anythin'?" the trolless asked, ignoring Murdok pointedly as he retreated to his room in the Inn. Murdok, for a troll, was a bit more fastidious than Shalar'zahn.

"I think I might have a plan," Ivan said, turning his tome around so she could see the page.

"Dis mean's not'in tah me, Ivan," she said with a smirk, "All dem scribbles."

"It's a good plan," he assured her, glancing towards where Murdok had left, "Did you two-?"

"Talked 'bout some t'ings," Shalar'zahn cut him off, "Don' yah worry 'bout it."

"Are you still fighting?" Ivan asked.

Shalar'zahn seemed to consider that a moment, and the barest of smiles stretched her lips, "Truce now, I t'ink."

"Negotiations a bit bumpy?" he said. If the two of them finally reconciled, he'd be happy for them. For all their fighting even when they were _together,_ when they weren't at each other's throats, they had seemed deliriously happy.

Ivan turned the book back around, raising his eyebrows at her.

"I'll give yah some bumps if ya don' leave it," Shalar'zahn informed him.

If they'd had sex, it had been pretty boring for them. Even their quickies – of which they were _never_ discrete about – resulted in scratches, bites, and bruises. They'd be healed a few hours later, but gentle lovemaking didn't seem to be a troll staple.

Then again, she was covered head to toe in furs, a far cry from her usual ensemble of twigs and leaves. Maybe the marks were hidden, or they'd healed on the long trip back.

"Never been a fan of the whole 'on the beach' fantasy," Ivan said, looking down at the book but not really reading it, "You get sand in places you don't _ever _want to chafe."

She punched him _hard_ on the shoulder. It hurt, and he yelped, but a moment later, both of them were laughing like they'd just heard the funniest joke in the world. Her hit would definitely leave a bruise, but it was worth it.

"Tell me wha' sorta plans yah squiggles got," Shalar'zahn said, grinning toothily at him.

Ivan smiled back, feeling a bizarre surge of hope. He was finally doing something to help another person. Maybe it was still for relatively selfish reasons, but it was a start.

* * *

_**A/N:** Big thanks to you cool cats who left reviews! As of last chapter, I've reached my NaNoWriMo goal, so chapters will probably have much improved spelling and grammar since I don't have to crank them out at an unholy rate. Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for Chapter 9!_


	9. Chapter 9

Relentless.

It was a word Edgar had always taken for granted, even when used in conjunction with the Scourge. Tucked away safely in the bowels of the Undercity, it was easy to forget what it meant. He could remember all the times he'd remarked on _relentless_ heat. Of someone's drive to claw their way up through the Forsaken hierarchy _relentless_.

How the Scourge that still shambled towards the Bulwark were _relentless_.

He'd had no idea what it truly meant to be pursued by something _truly_ relentless. Every stop they'd made between their initial flight and now he could practically feel creeping up on them. To lay a blanket of furs across the back of Yvette's dark steed so he could sit on it instead of lay draped over her shoulder. Again to change Tegan, to minimize her squalling. He was starting to grow exhausted now, but he didn't dare mention it. If he didn't, though, eventually he would drift off to sleep and fall right off the horse, taking Tegan with him.

It wasn't that he could even see their pursuers. He just_ knew_. The Scourge had practically materialized out of the woods, and the Legion had come down from _above_. There was no gargoyle circling overhead now, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. Surely the Lich King had more powerful means of surveillance.

When she'd first summoned the shadow horse he'd been furious. She'd been able to do that the entire time, and they'd been plodding along on a pack animal? During their first stop, however, he came to understand _why_ she hadn't. It hated him. Hate was a very mild way of putting it.

Their stop to make it possible for him to at least sit on it had taken nearly a half hour, or at least it seemed like it. It didn't even want to suffer the furs on its back, rearing up, screaming and pounding the air with its hooves. When he'd tried to mount up it had shifted sideways and tried to bite him, heedless of Yvette's commands otherwise.

When they'd finally mounted, Ivan could feel the deathcharger's fel cold seeping straight though the fur barrier. After ten minutes it had been so cold that it had stung, and now after so many hours, he couldn't feel much of anything at all.

It was a good thing he couldn't have children, anyway, because this would otherwise be a surefire way to render anyone infertile. Hopefully nothing he (or Anne) liked had been permanently damaged.

Tegan seemed to sense the tension and the general unease and had become exceptionally fussy. Edgar imagined she was a bit tired of being trussed up in the swaddling, and he hoped for her sake that she didn't have to suffer too much longer.

Yvette, for her part, had slipped into a moody silence. Or, at least, that was the emotional state he was putting her in. Her answers were crisp and had no elaboration, and he somewhat missed the long talks they'd had before. She was interesting, all things considered. Maybe they might even be friends if they got out of this mess.

No, not if. _ When_.

One thing he knew for certain, though. He would never accept a mission like this ever again. If that meant he'd be stuck training recruits and patrolling controlled territory for the rest of his unlife, so be it. He'd had enough excitement for a lifetime. Two lifetimes, even.

He felt his eyes drooping, amazed that his body could actually be tired in spite of the cold wind whipping past his face, or the fact that the lower half of his body felt numb. Edgar shook his head vigorously and looked down at Tegan, who looked back at him with her big amber eyes.

Smiling at her, he tucked her a little more neatly into her swaddling, letting her catch a finger. She was so small, it was hard to imagine that she'd grow up to be much taller than he was, even if his posture hadn't been mangled by decay.

"You're going to be even more trouble when you grow up, aren't you?" he asked her quietly, curling his finger when she tried to put it in her mouth. She gummed his knuckle curiously and made a face. It was a distinct one: _yuck_.

"What?" Yvette said over her shoulder. There was a touch of confusion in her voice.

"Oh, not you," Edgar said, "Tegan."

"Edgar, she can't understand you," the Death Knight said flatly

"I know that," he frowned, "Anyway, how far do you think we've come?"

"We should make it to the fjord sometime by dawn."

Edgar sighed wearily, and it turned into a yawn. They'd been riding since dawn today. Or was it yesterday? He could scarcely tell anymore.

"Do you need to rest?" Yvette asked. She turned her head around, sizing him up with a skeptical expression.

"No, no I'm all right," Edgar lied, not looking at her, "Just really tired."

"How tired?"

"Tired!"

Yvette brought her steed down from a breakneck gallop to a trot, and then stopped it entirely. She seemed to be considering something, looking behind them.

"You need some time to recover," she said, "Sitting on the deathcharger may be leeching your life force."

"Excuse me?" Edgar blinked. She'd just said it was very cold, not that it was... leeching his life force. That seemed like an important thing that you mentioned right away.

"An hour," Yvette said grimly. She slid off the beast and grasped its reins as it tried to rear up. Edgar's instinct was to hang on with his legs, and he panicked when he realized _he couldn't feel them_. He slid off the rear of the horse and landed hard on his back. Tegan squealed at the sudden excitement.

"I can't feel my legs!" Edgar said hoarsely, trying not to panic. It wasn't permanent, right? He'd only been sitting on a shadowy death horse, surely that wasn't enough to paralyze him! Damn it, if it wasn't one thing it was another.

"I suppose that's normal," Yvette said, though even she looked slightly uncertain, eyeballing her angry horse.

"Yvette, that's_ not_ normal," he protested, giving one of his thighs a solid punch. It tingled, vaguely.

"You just need to thaw out," she said.

"How the _fuck_ do you propose I do that!?" he shouted at her. No, no, _calm_. It would be all right. They'd made good time despite the ever present cloud of doom that seemed to be following them closely. An hour wasn't that much time. The Legion would have been tied up for at least a little while with Antoine, and the deathcharger didn't leave quite so obvious a trail as the shovel tusk had.

"Just wait," Yvette said. If she was insulted or irritated with his harsh words, it didn't show. She watched behind them sharply, keeping a tight hold on the charger. It was glaring at Edgar balefully, and if it didn't terrify him to look the horse in the eye, he would've glared right back.

"Fjord by morning, huh?" Edgar said. If he didn't do something, he was going to nod off, though much of his drowsiness had fled when he'd fallen off the horse.

"Yes, I'd estimate so. We would have been there already, but I'm trying to avoid riding through a vrykul settlement," Yvette assured him.

"I've got no problems with that," he said, "How closely do you think we're being followed? A half a day?"

"Perhaps a few hours," Yvette said. Her lack of fanfare made Edgar blink and he glanced down at his legs, urging them to thaw out _faster_.

"A few hours?" he said, "How could they be following so closely? We've got a head start."

"They don't need to stop," the Death Knight pointed out.

Edgar sighed guiltily and didn't say anything else. That was a point. He'd _never_ use the word relentless lightly ever again. Perhaps he ought to be making a list of all the things he intended to do, and intended to never do again, just in case some slipped through the cracks.

The baby troll squirmed, fighting against her tight swaddling and Edgar held her a bit closer to restrict her movement. He hated to do it to her, but if she could just manage a few more days, either way, things would be sorted out.

Tegan, not at all appreciating it, started to whimper, a precursor to flat out wailing.

"Do not let her cry," Yvette suggested, "It upsets my deathcharger."

"Oh,_ it's_ upset," Edgar said flatly, bouncing Tegan desperately, "Come on, sweetie. Just a little longer, all right? Then we can go on a nice zeppelin ride, and you can have _real _milk, and we'll find a nice troll family to take you in. Okay?"

Her face screwed up, lip quivering.

"Maybe you should talk to her in Zandalari," Yvette suggested with a touch of irritation. He ignored her – had being a Death Knight killed her maternal instinct, or was it something she'd just never been good at?

Edgar held Tegan up over his head, well aware of how ridiculous he looked. He brought her close to his face and then quickly lifted her up again. She looked a little uncertain at first, but after a few ups and downs, she was giggling, reaching her hands out to him.

He tossed her a little on her way up to punch things up a notch and she let out a happy shriek.

"Edgar, that is not quiet," Yvette hissed. She turned and struggled with her charger, the shadowy horse tossing its head violently, trying to break free.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, offering Yvette a sheepish look. Tegan reached out and patted his face, of course practically sticking her entire hand in one of his eyes. He smiled again in spite of himself. She'd grow up into a ferocious troll warrior, but for now, she was _awfully_ cute.

He shifted his position, and started when he was able to move his legs slightly.

"My legs are thawing already," Edgar said, "That's good."

"I don't think we're going to be able to use the charger anymore," Yvette told him candidly. He blinked.

"Why not?" he asked. Now both legs were tingling unpleasantly.

"It's getting too hard to control," Yvette said, obviously wrestling to keep it still as it danced in place, sharp hooves kicking up dirt from underneath the snow.

"How are we supposed to keep ahead of the Legion and the Scourge without it?" Edgar said. Despite the massive discomfort riding on the ornery creature was, the fact that it kept them well ahead of being slaughtered by the Scourge or the Legion made it more than bearable. They wouldn't make good time on foot. They wouldn't make _any_ time on foot.

"We will have to fight," Yvette said grimly. She dragged the creature a few feet away and banished it in a flourish of shadows before crouching down next to Edgar. The Death Knight studied him and poked one of his legs.

"Ow!" he protested.

"Better," she said.

"What do you mean that we'll have to fight?" he asked, ignoring his legs for now. Maybe he shouldn't have punched himself so hard, "The only reason we got away from the Scourge the first time was because the Legion showed up. Somehow I doubt we'll be that lucky again."

"We will have no choice but to be lucky," Yvette said.

Edgar blinked at her, and a smirked twitched his lips, brow creasing slightly, "Did you just make a joke?"

"I did," she nodded. The seriousness of her statement made him snort and then snicker – he was a little too stressed at this stage to all-out laugh.

"Maybe if we're very good, the luck fairy will come and grant us some," he said wryly.

"I believe we will need the pre-luck fairy in order to summon this luck fairy," Yvette returned with, to him, surprising sharpness. Maybe her replies _weren't _all pre-loaded and considered, then. He didn't cut the Death Knight nearly enough slack.

"Yvette?" he asked, looking down. Her presence so close was unsettling. It was how he imagined a lamb might feel if a hungry wolf was sitting next to it.

"Yes, Edgar?" she stood in a fluid motion to look behind them again. Absently, she nudged his legs with a foot and he flinched, able to shift them slightly.

"Thank you," Edgar said, looking up at her, "For getting us this far."

Yvette didn't respond for a long time and he supposed she wasn't really the gracious type. It seemed like the right thing to say, though, after she had apologized to him for the whole 'being crazy and possessed' thing which hadn't entirely been her fault. He was just glad it hadn't been him. There was still hope. They weren't _completely_ screwed. Not yet, anyway.

"What are you going to do when we return?" Yvette said. She hadn't responded to his thank you, which made him feel a bit uneasy, but at least she was talking again.

"To Vengeance Landing?" he clarified.

"The Undercity," she said, still not looking at him. Her eyes was fixed on something he probably had no hope of seeing.

Edgar considered his answer. He had a pretty good idea of what he'd do, actually, but part of him irrationally thought the Death Knight might be allergic to his saccharine fantasies.

"Probably kiss the flagstones," Edgar joked to start, not sure why he bothered with Yvette. Probably because she'd been more... human before. Maybe she appreciated being treated normally, "Then find Anne, and kiss her. And tell her I'm never leaving the Eastern Kingdom's again under any circumstances."

He sighed wistfully, omitting what else he'd do to Anne. Edgar missed her terribly, and even so far away, in the bitter cold, he could imagine the feel of her thick hair between his fingers. Undeath hadn't been terribly kind to either of them, or any Forsaken, but he still thought she was beautiful. It wasn't just the suggestion of her beauty, some appreciation of a memory, but _her_. Only thinking of her had gotten him this far. Edgar hoped that wherever she was, she wasn't too terribly worried.

Not wanting to be rude, he looked up at Yvette again, "What about you?"

"I'll stay in Vengeance Landing and help with the war effort," she said, adding after a pause, "Unless I find my brother again. Then I will have to free him, so we can both take revenge on the Lich King."

"Do you think just the two of you could stand up to him?" Edgar wondered. The Lich King seemed like a being that would take a few more than two to defeat.

"Perhaps not," Yvette said, "But we will try."

"Why throw away your life like that?" Edgar frowned, wincing and stretching his legs. They were very sore, but that was a good sign. He awkwardly got to his feet, staggering a little. Yvette caught him and steadied him with one hand.

"I've lost it twice," she said, "Once more will be of no consequence."

"So you're not really taking revenge," Edgar said, "You're just planning a suicide mission."

Yvette went silent, and Edgar couldn't tell if she was thinking his words over or ignoring them.

"The Lich King is not invincible," she said, gesturing that he walk along with her. He did, watching her closely.

"He's pretty close to it," he insisted, "Yvette, if you contribute to the war effort, you have a much better shot at him. It's going to take everything Azeroth's got to topple him. Throwing yourself at something so powerful... it would be a waste."

"A waste of what?" Yvette asked.

"Of a perfectly decent person," Edgar said, feeling awkward. He never thought he'd be talking up a Death Knight. Certainly not Yvette. They'd come quite a ways from sitting across from each other on a zeppelin in silence.

"I'm a monster," Yvette said.

Edgar felt guilty for the time he'd called her one. Well, nearly. It had been close enough, half the word. Maybe on some level, what she could do, what she was capable, made her a monster. What was he, then? He was some sort of unnaturally reanimated creature. His entire _race _was in a shady grey area not between life and death, but _undeath_ and life.

"Only if that's what you want to be," he said, giving her an awkward nudge, "For what it's worth, Yvette, you've done nothing but help me from the start. Before that whole Old Gods thing. Water under the bridge."

"I knocked you out."

"What?" Edgar blinked.

"On the zeppelin. You kept trying to get out your weapon or leave the cargo area, so when the balloon popped I knocked you out," she said.

"You weren't just.. grabbing a hold of me so I didn't fall out?" he said.

"No. You were more manageable unconscious."

That _did_ make Edgar laugh, his walking slowing down a bit.

"You _bitch_," he chuckled, "I can't believe you did that. Am I _that_ useless?"

"Mostly," she said.

"Well, thanks for coming clean," he smirked, "I'm sure you'll rest easier, now."

She didn't speak again, but the atmosphere seemed much improved now that she wasn't brooding darkly over her ill thought out revenge. As they walked, he was swiftly reminded of his own exhaustion, his legs becoming heavier and heavier to lift. Edgar soldiered on, though. It was what he was good at.

He let his head drop forward, bent against the wind that screeched between the trees. Had there been this much wind on their North? It felt as though the land itself was conspiring against them at times.

The sound of hooves slamming against the earth crept into his ears delicately, almost passing his notice at first. Horses were common. People rode them all the time.

Oh, right. They were in Northrend. His heart did a flip and then dove into his feet and he turned around to see what was coming.

Just as he saw who it was – Antoine, bearing down on them on his own deathcharger – Yvette shoved him off to the side and he heard her draw her sword. Still weakened from his prolonger perch on the shadow mount, he stumbled and fell.

Antoine's runeblade sang as it sliced through the air that he'd only moments ago occupied, and he thundered past, wheeling the snarling animal around. It reared up and screamed (nothing in nature could scream like that) and Antoine turned his blade in an easy circle. The gesture seemed so smug, so _flashy,_ and it certainly hadn't been friendly, trying to lop his damned head off.

"Antoine!" Yvette exclaimed, putting herself between Edgar and her brother, "What are you doing?"

"I've caught you," he said, pointing his sword not at Yvette, but at Edgar. Edgar swallowed hard and scrambled to get to his feet.

"You stopped the doomguard for us," Yvette insisted. Edgar was beginning to think he shouldn't have taken her word for it, that Antoine had helped. Maybe he'd just been eliminating his competition.

"It was in my way," her brother said.

"You could have killed us much sooner, Antoine," she continued, "But you didn't. Part of you knows you can't kill me."

"Like you didn't kill me?"

"I had no choice, brother, _please_," Yvette said, "You of all people _must_ understand that."

Antoine was silent and his luminous eyes flickered. On his feet, Edgar realized he'd been holding his breath and let it go, inhaling deeply. He still hadn't drawn his sword. Considering what Yvette was capable of, what chance did he have against something like that? Especially something that had the Lich King's backing.

"I _understand_ that the Lich King wills I destroy you. All three of you," he finally said. Their was an odd strain in his voice, but there was something not right about it. Edgar couldn't tell what it was, and if Yvette knew, she wasn't in a position to tell him just now.

"Why Tegan?" Edgar said. He could feel both Death Knight's eyes fixate on him, and the sensation made him feel very small indeed, "Why her? She's an innocent in this."

"Her, especially," Antoine said, "What she stands for could undo everything."

"If she can undo the Lich King, brother, then let us use her together to defeat him!"

"_Everything_, sister," her brother repeated, "You know what lurks beneath the earth. You felt its tendrils coil and grasp at your mind. That," he pointed the tip of his sword at the squirmy bundle, "Is the key to all of it. To _everything_."

Edgar looked down at Tegan with a frown, almost expecting to see something different about her. But he didn't. She only looked back at him. Aside from her odd birthmark, on the surface she was a normal troll baby.

"She broke the control," Yvette said. Edgar was impressed with how easily she took it all in stride, how she continued to press her own point home. Her brother was all she had in the world. He imagined that if he had a brother, he would do anything, say anything, try _anything_ to ensure they were together again. It was how he felt about Anne.

After all she'd been through, Yvette still loved her brother. That she was even capable of something like that was a bit staggering to him.

"Antoine, she could break the Lich King's control over you," she urged when he didn't respond.

"Doubtful," Antoine said. He slid off of his horse, and Edgar noted rather warily that Antoine's mount wasn't half as unruly as Yvette's. It pawed the ground, impatient, but did nothing more.

"Give him the baby, Edgar," Yvette suddenly demanded, gesturing to him. Despite how desperately she was imploring her brother, she still had her runeblade at the ready.

"Absolutely not," Edgar scowled, putting a protective hand on the back of the infants head as he drew her against his shoulder, "Maybe what she did for you only works for Old Gods. It's too risky!"

"It's my _brother_," Yvette said.

There was a terrible desperation and sorrow in her eyes and Edgar swallowed hard. Everything in his body screamed at him _not_ to do it. At the same time, Yvette was pleading with him. With _him_.

"Yvette, I really don't like this," he stalled, even though he knew stalling was pointless. He wasn't going to get a flash of inspiration no matter how long he managed delay action.

"Give me the baby, Edgar," Antoine said. He was slowly advancing on the two of them.

_Relentless_, Edgar thought darkly.

"Put down your sword," Edgar said, noting that Yvette looked just as likely to snatch Tegan as her brother.

Antoine paused his advance and tilted his head. It was an eerie gesture, something he'd seen Yvette do so many times before. He looked down at his sword, perhaps considering it.

"No," he said. Antoine stretched out his hand, and for a brief moment, Edgar had flashes of the vrykul Yvette had plucked off the back of a dragon. Uh oh.

Not for the first time that evening, something bowled him over and he cried out in alarm. For a few horrible moments, he was sure he was impaled, or in Antoine's grasp, but no. He'd only slammed into a tree, and he leaned against it, watching in shock as Yvette's brother grasped her by the throat curiously.

Her runeblade was still in her hand, the tip dipping into the snow, no aggression behind it whatsoever.

"Antoine," she said. There was a strange gentleness in her hoarse, hollow voice, "You're in there. I know it. You stopped the doomguard-"

"The Burning Legion wants the child for its own purposes," he cut her off, slowly setting her onto her feet. She didn't step back from him.

"She can help you, Antoine," Yvette said, "Just put down your sword a moment. _Trust_ me, brother."

Not unlike their first encounter, Antoine went silent. Warring internally, Edgar mused, like Yvette had not terribly long ago.

_Come on_, _Antoine_, Edgar urged the male Death Knight. They'd been through enough crap. A joyous reunion would be welcome right about now.

The sound of steel ringing against steel rang out before Edgar had even registered either sibling had moved, Antoine pressing down on Yvette's sword with both hands. Their arms shivered slightly as they warred for supremacy, but Yvette was at the disadvantage.

She spun away quickly, Antoine in hot pursuit. Yvette had always struck Edgar as almost feral. Her fighting style, that he had seen, was brutal and savage. Not so, when dueling her brother. It was almost as though they were dancing together, their swords occasionally brushing. They were fighting, he knew that intellectually, but it scarcely seemed to register.

It was Antoine who broke the dance, swinging wide to throw Yvette off balance and driving a knee into her side. The blow was powerful, caving in the armor, a dry snapping sound punctuating the screech of metal against metal. Edgar could imagine himself being catapulted into a tree from the blow, but Yvette only staggered, suddenly thrown on the defensive with her side caved in. It didn't seem to bother her much.

"You killed me," Antoine seethed, "I begged you not too and you _killed me_."

"I'm sorry, Antoine," Yvette said, giving more and more ground. It looked very much to Edgar like she was giving up.

"I'll kill _you_, and that pathetic _thing_ you're dragging along with you, and then I'll destroy my Master's-"

"He doesn't have to be your master!" she begged.

"I _want _him to be," Antoine hissed, his face inches from hers for a moment. He reeled back and head butted her, his helmet caving in a portion of her skull in the process. Yvette fell flat on her back and Edgar gasped, taking a hesitant step forward in spite of himself. No! No, that wasn't how it was supposed to go!

"We don't have to be monsters," Yvette begged. She'd dropped her sword, and one eye had gone dim. Edgar was somewhat shocked to hear his own words being used, not sure how he ought to feel about that.

He spent a lot of time being unsure, didn't he?

The siblings stared at each other for a long time, Yvette prone and bleeding, her body twitching slightly of its own accord. That she hadn't died from such a terrible blow to her head was a miracle in itself.

"_Why_, Antoine?" Yvette whispered.

"When you killed me, sister, I thought I would finally be free," Antoine hissed, "But then the Lich King tore my soul back again. He offered me the chance to take my revenge on you."

"I didn't make you a Death Knight," she protested.

"Then he found out you had the baby, too," Antoine continued. His voice was cold and cruel, completely without compassion. It wasn't the conscious absence of emotion like Yvette, who tried to hide what little shreds of humanity she had left – it was the lack of any emotion at all. Yvette had saved Edgar because she wanted to keep on living. Antoine, he'd care to wager, was not terribly fussed with how long he lived. He had no goals past destroying the one who had destroyed him, even if it was his own sister.

"And what then, after you kill us?" Yvette asked. Her remaining eye searched Antoine's face, desperate for something, anything that was still her brother.

"Whatever the Lich King wills," he said calmly, readjusting his grip on his sword.

Edgar's body still remembered what it was like to cry. He didn't know what sort of person he'd been, that his body would grasp onto something like that after death. His throat tightened and though they didn't really, he could imagine his eyes stinging. It was so unfair. After everything they'd been through.

_You're dead anyway, if he kills her, and you know it_, he swallowed and took another nervous step towards Antoine, glancing down at Tegan. She'd gone quiet, big eyes wide, and only blinked back at him. She would be dead, too, apparently. If Antoine had no sympathy for his sister, he wouldn't spare a thought for a baby troll.

"You're still in there, Antoinne," Yvette sighed. Her runeblade was in easy reach, but her body had gone limp, "Perhaps my death will help you realize that."

Antoine's cruel laughter made Edgar hunch his shoulders and wince.

"You'll buy _anything_, won't you? No _wonder_ the Lich King severed your lot. You're_ all _defective," he hissed, "He's improved upon his technique since then."

"What-!?"

Edgar froze, considering backing away. What was_ this _now? Defective? Buy anything? Had he been _faking_ his hesitation? Why would he do that!?

_To toy with her_, Edgar thought with no small amount of horror, _Because he could. _ _Oh, Yvette_.

"You're my brother, Antoine," Yvette said, some of her fierceness returning, "I love you."

"Goodbye, Yvette," was Antoine's cold reply. He brought his runeblade up, lifting it over his head, his intentions clear. Edgar tensed, eyes widening. His sword would do him no good – if Yvette could suffer a crushed ribcage and a caved in skull, a poke with a sword wouldn't stop Antoine.

So he did the first thing that came to mind.

He pelted the Death Knight with a snow ball.

It didn't hurt, of course, and it didn't even make Antoine flinch. What it did do, however, was irritate him. He did not return his sister's love, but he didn't hate her either - he was devoid of any emotions that weren't sourced in malicious cruelty.

Edgar supposed it was about time he was right about something when the Death Knight turned his head to glare at him.

"Wait your turn, insect," he snarled.

Antoine had Yvette's runeblade through his chest in the next second, his eyes impossibly wide. With brutal efficiency she levered it back and then forth, effectively sawing him in half in two smooth motions.

"Yvette-!" her brother gurgled, the black ichor that substituted his blood oozing out of both his halves. His lower half twitched and Yvette leaned on her runeblade for a moment. Edgar didn't know if it was from her wounds or because of the weight of what she'd just done, and he swallowed hard against a lump in her throat.

"Goodbye, Antoine," she said. His head was separated from his body in the next instant, just like that. He was in three pieces.

Edgar flicked a nervous look over his shoulder when he heard an ominous noise, but it was only Antoine's deathcharger vanishing into the shadow realm. He turned back to the grisly scene.

Now would be an appropriate time to be unsure of what to do, if only to avoid getting close to a dead Death Knight. Instead, though, he shuffled forward timidly, eyes fixed on Yvette.

She fell to her knees, fingers falling away from her runeblade numbly. He was once again reminded of a marionette with her strings cut, only this time, she had cut them herself.

"I killed him _again_," she said quietly.

"He would have killed all of us," Edgar tried. His words felt worthless and unseemly in the scope of her pain.

"I meant to this time," Yvette said, "He... he wasn't there anymore. It wasn't him. Antoine was _never_ cruel. Never like that. _Never_. Unless I never noticed-"

"Hey," Edgar interrupted her and crouched down, more aware of his boots in Death Knight gore than he wanted to be, "Don't you dare think that. I saw it too, and I didn't even know him. All right?"

"I've killed my brother," Yvette repeated.

"You killed something that stole his body," Edgar protested, "All right? It's like you said. You're only a monster if you choose to be. Antoine clearly chose to be a monster. Maybe he did it to hide from his own pain, but you don't have to do that. _Right?_ Yvette?"

He reached out and shook her shoulders. Edgar tried not to grimace at how half of her face was smashed in. It didn't seem to be bothering her that much.

Her hands suddenly grasped his wrists and he inhaled sharply. It took all of his willpower to not try and twist away from the burning cold of her touch.

"He wanted revenge on _me_, Edgar," she said. He couldn't tell if she was angry, or upset, or both, or neither.

"The Lich King wanted him to want revenge," Edgar insisted.

"What do you want, Edgar?" Yvette asked, squeezing his wrists uncomfortably tight.

"I want to see Anne again," he swallowed, "I want to get Tegan someplace safe. I want..."

He trailed off, even Yvette's remaining eye slicing straight through him.

"I want you to see Anne again," she repeated, "I want Tegan to be safe. I want to _keep living_ even though I'm a monster. Is it wrong? Should monster's wish to live?"

"You're no more a monster than I am," Edger murmured, ashamed that he could no longer hold her eye contact, looking down, "Wanting to live is what makes us _alive_."

That was an impressively stupid thing to say, he thought, but Yvette released his wrists and he looked up again.

"Rest," Yvette said quietly, "We should have some time now. The Legion wasn't able to tail him. Their trail will be cold, and the Scourge will have to catch up."

Edgar nodded. He wasn't entirely convinced – hadn't she said they were only hours behind? - but not trusting Yvette at this stage seemed insulting at best. He settled his back against a tree a fair ways from where Antoine's body lay and drifted into an uneasy and dreamless sleep.

* * *

Twice.

The first time he'd begged for mercy. Pleaded with her not to strike him down. For her to fight the influence of the Lich King.

She had not listened. She had not been _able_ to listen to him, no matter how much what tiny amount of self awareness she had had rattled the bars of its prison and screamed. Yvette had cut him down and that had been it. She'd laid a withered rose on a grave with no body beneath it. Had mourned him, and taken an oath to avenge him even if it cost her the third shot at life she'd been given.

What a dark gift it was. Gift was such an ironic term, but a curse would imply that she didn't want it.

That was the difference between her and her brother, in the end. All he had wanted was to paint. To merely _exist_.

He hadn't wanted to _live_. To strive, to grow, to seek out more. He'd never gotten out of his apprenticeship when they'd moved to Lordaeron. It was easier for sweet, gentle, timid Antoine to be submissive to his teacher. Yvette had let him. She had only wanted him to be happy.

Besides, who was she to judge? She'd kept herself busy at home, keeping the house clean.

But it was Yvette who talked with the neighbors. Yvette who laughed with the baker's daughter while she picked up fresh bread for the day. Yvette who had started a flirtation with the young man who helped run the livery.

Yvette who had thrived in the massive city while her brother began to wilt before her eyes.

Oh how she desperately wished to keep her illusions of her brother! To have left his memory flawless and perfect, that would have been ideal.

He hadn't had the strength to hang onto himself through his first death. The second had been too much. There had simply been nothing left. Antoine had been an ideal vessel.

While Edgar slept she disposed of the body, letting her mastery of disease consume the already rotten flesh. His remains would not nourish the earth. Nothing would grow in that spot ever again.

Edgar.

She looked over at the slumbering Forsaken, he and Tegan in their usual position. Him with his chin on his chest, her with one hand touching his face. Yvette was almost tempted to consider him wise, but his wisdom seemed accidentally come by, as though he was only borrowing it for awhile before its rightful owner reclaimed it.

Yvette would always regret her brother's death twice at her own hands, but not enough that she didn't want to live. This was the Lich King's doing, and her plans were shifting radically. Edgar's wife was the Captain of the Guard. That would be quite useful to her. And Tegan, it seemed, was far more than just an abandoned troll baby they'd saved from death.

Antoine had been rather flippant with his information, but he didn't seem to have known much more than what he'd said. She was some sort of key, then. Somewhere, there was a lock, and whomever held the key would wield enough power to destroy the Lich King.

It was power even the Burning Legion sought.

Idly, Yvette traced a hand over the now-empty helm. She could feel a dull ache in her side and her skull, and knew at least some of the damage would be permanent. No forest creatures would come near this place of their own accord, either, so if she intended to regenerate the more serious damage to her skull, she'd have to seek it out.

Had he been awake, Edgar would have protested her leaving him alone, but she was quite confident that he'd be fine. Yvette had been under the assumption that a whole other squadron of Scourge had been after them, but that wasn't the case. Antoine had come alone, overconfident, so assured of his superiority over her that he'd ridden far ahead of his shambling minions.

And the Burning Legion, who had no real anchor here, they were only riding the Scourge's coattails. Antoine had likely dispatched the first group, and there had been no survivors to tail him.

It had, she was certain, been a rather small group as well. There were only three of them, after all, and one of them was a baby.

There was a distinct difference in the groups goals, though. The Scourge would be happy to kill all of them, but the Burning Legion wanted the baby alive. They could use that to their advantage, to a point. Edgar, she didn't think, wouldn't be able to convincingly threaten the baby.

A lone wolf, stalking close to where Edgar and Tegan were sleeping, had its neck snapped cleanly. Part of her couldn't help but enjoy suffering. She'd simply let it go before, attributed it to her nature. But that wasn't true. Everyone had a dark nature, but it was the desire to keep that nature concealed and captive that made all the difference between a man and a monster.

She feasted on the wolf, drawing its vitality in and letting it repair what it could. Her ribs were easily knit, though she had to remove her chest piece to do so. No matter. Though her skull repaired itself, the eye did not.

It was a fair trade, she thought, tentatively putting her fingers in the now empty socket. Her brother for an eye. She had no other mementos of him, from their life or their unlife. A scar would do.

Sated and repaired, Yvette returned to Edgar and Tegan, standing over them and watching them silently. She had become their guardian, their guide. Though it had been easy to fall into the role of destroyer, of murderer, of monster, she did not have to be any of those things.

She could be a protector. As Edgar had put it, she could be, apparently, a _perfectly decent person_.

"I'll return you safely to your Anne, Edgar," Yvette promised him. Sound asleep, he didn't respond.

Yvette wondered if she would've smiled now, if she could. She wondered what Anne would think of her, if she would allow their friendship to persist. It would be difficult for anyone else to understand.

She had hoped Antoine would, after all, and even after being through the things she had it hadn't been enough.

Yvette dared to hope that the reason for that was because she wasn't quite gone, yet. She wasn't an empty shell driven by hate and blood and violence. There was more to her, and perhaps, there could _be_ more than just existing in her future.

Maybe she could_ live_.

Yvette Brack was no longer a monster.


	10. Chapter 10

Igor had never been a fan of adventuring. The food was stale, the company became strained, and the sleeping conditions were abysmal. He wasn't terribly concerned with material wealth. His faith in the Light was all he needed, even if it was a strain for him to reach for it. It wasn't that the Light would not let him – he simply had further to reach.

Above all, he hated riding. They always left these unpleasant things out of the tales they told over hearth. It often seemed the case to Igor that they spent far more time traveling than actual adventuring. Perhaps Anne wouldn't appreciate this being called an adventure, though. It was a mission to her, one of great importance. Maybe in the years to come, if they succeeded, she would laugh about it, call it an adventure.

She was very curious about all of them, and Igor had revealed very little at first. He was still somewhat embarrassed for airing his own dirty laundry in front of everyone the day before. What business did he have to reveal the others?

Anne, he realized, wasn't a gossip by any means. She simply liked to_ know_. It was a trait he more commonly associated with his twin, and really, it was for the same reason. Control. The more she knew, the more in control she was. Anne, at least, wouldn't use her knowledge to manipulate and twist others.

So, he had slowly opened up. Just little anecdotes at first, most of them about his twins foolishness or about Makenzie's knack for bungling spells. Not so much because Ivan was a poor teacher – he was a distracted one, certainly, since his student was also his lover – but because Makenzie had the attention span of a gnat.

"A gnat?" Anne said.

"Perhaps a little longer than a gnat," Igor smirked, "A fish, maybe."

"She was like that even when you were her tutor?" she clarified.

"Oh, yes," he said, "She has considerable talent but has little interest in harnessing it. Well. Sometimes she does, if it suits her fancy."

"Sounds spoiled."

"You have no idea," Igor said. He shook his head, "She's unlike any Forsaken I've ever met. Sometimes I wonder if she realizes she died."

"Did it bother you? When she became Ivan's student?" Anne asked. She'd asked a few similar questions before, obviously attempting to settle something in her mind.

"I never had any affection for Makenzie outside of her being my pupil," Igor said, raising his eyebrows at Anne's back, "I was disappointed, of course, but even I can't argue that her affinity for the shadow is strong. Stronger than her affinity for the Light, anyway."

"So Ivan had Makenzie. Who did you have?" Anne said. Igor could almost imagine a list in her head, ticked off with neat little checks every time she received an adequate answer.

"Ivan and Makenzie," Igor said after thinking about it a moment. He knew what sort of answer she was _really_ looking for, and despite the fact that he'd been telling her a great deal, there were still some things he'd prefer to keep to himself.

"So why live alone in Brill?"

"I can still visit the Undercity from Brill," he defended, shifting his position on the saddle. It didn't help, "And they visit me sometimes."

"But you used to live together."

"When we got back from Outland, I moved out," Igor said.

"Why?"

Igor vented a terse sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose a moment. He wasn't like Ivan in that he could rebuff questions of any magnitude with a snide remark, revealing nothing about what he was feeling inside. His heart tended to live on his sleeve.

"What happened in Skettis changed things," he said, "Maybe not for us directly, but we all still felt that things were different. I just... needed time to study. Especially when I was unable to help Shalar'zahn..."

"The way you told it, that curse had been meant to kill her," Anne said, turning her head slightly to gage his expression. He looked down, not wanting her to see his emotions play on his face.

"Makenzie broke it fairly early. I just... if I had been more prepared, perhaps I could of undone the curse entirely."

"You blame yourself," the soldier mused quietly.

"In part," Igor shrugged uncomfortably, pulling his coat around him a bit tighter, "It tore her and Murdok apart. I never thought anything would have separated them, but after what he said... if I were Shalar'zahn, I don't think I would have forgiven him either."

He blamed himself for a great deal, lately. By taking his brother's (admittedly flawed) protective instinct as something selfish instead of selfless, he'd likely contributed to Ivan's foul behavior and low opinion of himself. He'd moved out, as well, and perhaps if he had just stayed with Ivan and Makenzie and worked things out, she wouldn't be kidnapped by demons. And maybe, if he'd insisted on even another month of study before gallivanting off to Outland, he would have been able to fully reverse the curse that had devastated Shalar'zahn.

If anything happened to his twin while he was off helping Anne find her husband, he could add that to the list as well.

Anne seemed satisfied for the moment and he hunkered down in the saddle, wondering when he'd reach a point where the bitter wind and the uncomfortable saddle would cease to bother him.

At first, he'd tried his best to follow Anne's questions with questions about her, but she wasn't half as mysterious as he apparently was. Eventually, he'd realized it was because her life had begun not when she'd been _born_, but rather when she'd risen from the dead. While Makenzie was the same, he'd always been able to attribute that to her empty headedness. With Anne, everything seemed so clear cut, so _certain_. He envied that, in a way. Though part of him often wished he didn't remember his time before, he knew it wasn't serious. Igor wouldn't have the first clue what it would be like, to not remember growing up or getting into all kinds of trouble with his brother.

Igor looked out at the Howling Fjord, the horizon dominated by the massive keep. It seemed to be glaring at them, as though it were personally offended by their presence on the fjord. The snow wasn't piled so high here yet, only patches here and there, but the cold was more intense than it had been on the coast. It made Winterspring seem cozy and inviting.

There were a great many more birds here than in Tirisfal, at least this far South on the continent. Was it irony, that the land the Lich King called home had more life than the Forsaken territory? He imagined things changed the further North one traveled, but just now it was hard to imagine that this was the seat of the Scourge.

He watched a peculiar bird come closer, startled by its vibrant coloring, squinting at it. It must've been quite big, as it was hard for him to tell just how far away it was.

"What sort of bird do you suppose that is?" Igor asked, pointing it out for Anne. She turned her head and looked, searching the sky a moment before she fixed her eyes on the bird as well.

"Shit," Anne.

"A shit bird?" Igor said glibly, startled by her sudden vulgarity. She leaned forward in the saddle and yanked on her chargers' reins. It obeyed, turning sharply and away.

"Keep an eye on it!" Anne barked over her shoulder, practically standing up in the saddle as she drew her sword. She reached down to a saddlebag, making Igor's heart catch in his chest, certain she would fall off in the process. Anne unbuckled her shield, not even holding the reins as the horse's hooves tore up the ground in its wake.

Igor turned around and blinked rapidly. The bird was much bigger now. And it wasn't a bird at all. Some kind of mockery of a dragon, in fact. A moment later he noted it had a harness, and that something was riding it. Was it Scourge? By the Light, if the Scourge was building dragons, what hope did they have!?

"How long ago did you notice it?" Anne demanded of him, twisting around in the saddle so she was facing him while Igor held on for dear life.

"Not... not long ago! I thought it was a bird! What is it?"

"Protodragon," she said, strapping her shield to her arm. Her casual precision was staggering, "The vrykul ride them."

"So that's-"

"Head down!" Anne said urgently. She reached out suddenly and wrapped her sword arm around him, forcing him down and closer to her. Absently, before he felt the intense heat of what could only be dragon breath, he noticed that Anne wasn't wearing a breastplate. Just a chain shirt.

The fact that he wasn't incinerated overrode that fact a moment later and he fought to sit up, hitting his head and yelping as the super heated metal of her shield burned him.

"Stay down!" she barked at him, "He's coming around for another pass!"

"Why is he trying to kill us!?" Igor wondered, voice muffled as he ducked down again. He felt a bit embarrassed about where his face kept ending up, but Anne wasn't giving it a second thought. She was too busy keeping them from getting cooked.

"Because we're here," Anne said. How she could hold the searing hot shield aloft without her arm shaking was quite impressive. Part of him had wondered just how much of a soldier she was. Climbing ranks wasn't just being a good soldier, after all. There were politics involved.

If Anne was as good a politician as she was a soldier, he could see why she'd achieved Captain. Maybe rescuing her husband from Northrend more or less singlehandedly would earn her General.

"He's not coming around," she said, not sounding terribly pleased with that fact.

"What's that mean? Is he leaving?" Igor asked, relieved when she moved her shield and tapped his shoulder. He sat up and turned around, taking note of the retreating vrykul.

"Not for long," Anne scowled, sheathing her sword a moment so she could turn around in the saddle, "He's probably going to get back up."

"Back up!? That's a bit of overkill, isn't it?"

"Maybe this isn't the first time this week they've chased some Forsaken on horseback," she said ominously. Igor didn't know what to make of that, and supposed she made a good point, even if it was a bit of a grab. It wasn't necessarily plural. The sin'dorei, crazy as he was, seemed quite convinced that Edgar had been more of a snack for Yvette than a sidekick.

"Keep an eye behind us," Anne ordered sharply. He found himself obeying before he'd even really registered what she'd asked. She had quite a talent for taking charge. Normally he found high ranking authority figures rather poor at relationships, unable to separate their need to control from their personal lives. Was it the same with Anne and Edgar? Did she have some sort of guilt she wasn't talking about?

"Do you have a plan?" Igor wondered.

"Find someplace they have to dismount to come after us," Anne said, "Hopefully they'll give up before then, though. I've been purposefully avoiding their bigger territories, so something has them riled up."

"Maybe the Scourge?" he offered.

"The vrykul are aligned with the Scourge, Igor," she said. She didn't snap or sound exasperated, but he felt incredibly stupid for having let that fact slip his mind.

"There aren't a lot of places to hide out here," Igor offered lamely. Despite her competence, she wasn't terribly reassuring. This was the first time, he realized suddenly, he'd been in danger and Ivan hadn't been with him. Igor swallowed hard, and tried to use it to his advantage. How would Ivan have handled this? Probably started lobbing shadow bolts at the vrykul and end up on fire. Throw himself completely into the fray and just let Igor fix him up afterwards.

But Ivan wasn't here. Just Anne. Anne had a different sort of solution, one that involved _logic_. Rather wildly, he wondered if logic was the worst possible way to approach a dangerous situation.

The red gash in the sky that was the protodrake disappeared from view, and Igor calmed some.

"He's out of sight," he said, "Maybe if we just keep going North they won't be able to find us again. They can't know where we're headed."

"Don't be so sure," Anne said, though she did veer away from the East, guiding her mount Northwards again. He doubted very much that a normal horse would be able to sustain this kind of punishment for even twenty minutes, let alone the hours they'd been thundering along. Was it so non-sentient that it didn't need rest or food? The Forsaken needed both, though not at all in the capacity they did in life.

Perhaps it simply didn't care, resolved to gallop its skeletal legs down to stubs if its mistress required it.

They rode in absolute silence, for how long, Igor didn't know. He had never been quite good at keeping time – neither twin had. It was so easy to get lost in the moment. Igor was sure if he asked Anne, she would somehow know the precise time, but he wasn't keen to bother her just now.

His eyes had started to drift around the countryside, neck starting to feel the strain of constantly peering over his shoulder, when he saw the red gashes again. Igor couldn't believe it, but at the same time, it made perfect sense. They could glide over the landscape easily. Even flat out, Anne's mount still had to bypass obstacles, to go up hills and be cautious of what was hidden under swaths of snow.

"They're back," Igor said, clutching Anne's shoulders unconsciously.

"How many?" she asked.

He counted them quickly, recounted, mouthing the numbers silently, "Three, I think. No, four."

"Hang on," Anne said.

"I am," he assured her with a touch of grim humor.

"Tighter, to my waist," she suggested. Igor awkwardly did so, and when he dared to look forward, he inhaled sharply. There was a sudden drop off ahead of them. It was steep enough that going around would have been the wiser choice, but it stretched quite far in either direction.

Anne wasn't going to waste any time.

"Anne, are you _sure _going around wouldn't be a bit safer?" Igor couldn't help but ask, conscious of how tightly he was squeezing Anne.

"It would be safer, but we don't have time," she said, confirming his suspicion that she was a lot crazier than she looked.

"Won't it break its legs?" he asked her. Skeletal warhorses were sturdy things, sturdier than the average horse, but it was _still_ only a horse. It was weighted down by plate barding and two Forsaken as well, and it had been running flat out for a long time.

"We'll see," was Anne's grim reply, "Watch them, Igor!"

Igor turned around quickly. He didn't have to squint to make them out anymore, and if he used his imagination, he could see the vrykul shaking their weapons in the air aggressively.

"They're a lot closer," he said.

"How close?"

"Close, I don't have to squint to see them," Igor assured her. He didn't dare attempt to put a measurement on it – his skills in that department were lackluster at their best.

Anne let out an angry sigh and pushed on.

"Aren't you going to slow down?" he asked her.

"No," she said, "I'm not."

Igor looked forward, peering at the back of her head, and she shot him in irritable look. Then she craned her neck, flicking her eyes over their pursuers.

"I thought you said four?" she said in alarm.

"Are there more?" Igor gulped, looking over his shoulder again. But instead of having more pursuers, they had less, "Maybe I counted wrong."

Anne swore and began to look around furiously, all the while keeping her mount on course. They were drawing much closer to the cliff now. It was too high. He'd learned awhile ago how to slow an otherwise disastrous decent, but would he be able to do it for himself, Anne, and the horse? Previously, he'd only ever done it for himself. Being Ivan's brother meant minimizing personal injury on any and all fronts.

Maybe he was over thinking it. Just the horse would do, right? It made sense. They were both on the horse, so if it was falling slowly, so would they. Should he mention it? He didn't want to say he could do it and then wind up failing miserably. Anne was cross enough with him.

Suddenly, Anne let out an especially loud curse and she pulled back hard on the reins. The deathcharger scrambled to obey and Igor looked forward, eyes wide.

Hovering just at the edge of the cliff, now, was the fourth rider. There was absolutely no way they were going to stop before they barreled into it. They were so close now that he could hear the protodrake suck in air, hear the shouts of the vrykul as he barked orders at the beast.

Under her breath, he heard Anne hiss '_Fuck it!_' and she relented on the reins, urging it forward again. It pumped its legs furiously, trying to make up lost ground, and the vrykul's eyes widened as she jumped the deathcharger off the cliff and straight at the protodragon.

"Jump, Igor!" she suggested, launching herself off of the mount. It looked as though she'd managed to defy gravity to Igor, the way she leaped from the back of her mount to the drake, mashing her shield in the vrykul's face as he scrambled for his axe.

Then the warhorse hit the protodrake, and gravity got very angry with all of them. The drake went careening, the burst of fire spewing out in wild directions, miraculously missing Igor as he fell like a stone with the horse.

His mind locked up for a few terrible moments, refusing to remember the right spell, but not for long. When he opened his eyes again he was gliding peacefully downwards, robes rippling around him.

Igor winced as the mount hit the ground with an audible crunch, gear and barding flying everywhere. Shockingly, it still tried to get to its feet, apparently relentless in its task. There was no chance it would ever go anywhere again, though, not without some serious repairs.

"Arrgh!" Anne grunted above him. The drake had stabilized from the impact with the horse, though he could see some of its harness had bee torn in some rather precarious spots. Anne, meanwhile, was wrestling with the vrykul, though he couldn't see much from his vantage.

"Anne!!" he called out in a panic, "The harness! It's going to snap!"

Anne couldn't die. She _couldn't_. Who would protect him if she was dead!? He wouldn't have the first clue how to get back to Vengeance Landing from here, either, assuming the swiftly closing vrykul didn't destroy him.

The other vrykul-!

_Snap_.

With a cry of alarm the vrykul was spilled from his saddle, grasping desperately for the tatters of the harness as he did so. Anne wasn't so lucky, falling past him, her thin fingers finding purchase on nothing as she plummeted towards the earth.

Somewhat miraculously, Igor grabbed for her, and she grabbed back. Her sudden weight wrenched his shoulders and he cried out, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain. Igor was certain he'd just dislocated at least one shoulder, but that didn't matter now.

"Don't let go, Igor!" Anne exclaimed, eyes wide. There was a distant clatter as her sword and shield joined her ruined mount, "_Shit!_"

Igor looked up in time to see the protodrake pluck its master from the tattered harness. With its teeth. The blood rained down on them, and even Anne grimaced. That hadn't been what she was cursing about, however. It was the three other riders circling overhead.

"Anne, this isn't looking real good," he said, only partially ashamed by the terror in his voice, "What should we do?"

"There's a cave," she said, a glimmer of hope in her voice, "They won't be able to follow us. We should be able to drop safely from here, Igor. Cancel the spell."

Igor cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Igor, cancel the spell," Anne demanded, "They're right on top of us!"

"I don't... I never really learned how to do that," he said lamely.

"Dark Lady help me Igor, if you don't cancel the spell right now you're going to be protodrake food!" she snarled harshly. Igor winced, not appreciating her tone at all. He noted her urgency, as well, and squeezed his eyes shut. What was the reverse of casting...!?

"Igor!" Anne shrieked. She let go of his hands suddenly and he snapped his eyes open, watching her hit the ground and roll deftly, looking up, her eyes wide with fear.

Something hard and scaly wrapped around his middle, plucking him out of the air easily, and he howled as talons dug into his flesh.

"_Igor!!_" he heard Anne cry out, "Down here, you bastards! Down _here!_"

Igor tried struggling but the protodrake only squeezed him harder, talons carving into him mercilessly. Nobody was going to save him, now. Anne couldn't reach him. Ivan was all the way back at Vengeance Landing.

_You know what you have to do,_ he thought grimly. He'd sworn to himself when they'd risen again in undeath to never follow in his brother's footsteps again. Igor had taken up studying the Light while Ivan continued his dark path. Been gentle when his brother had been cruel. Chosen solitude while his twin made certain his bed was always warmed by another.

He coughed, the action wracking him with pain, blood drooling out of his mouth, and he laid shaking hands on the protodrake. It was so easy to draw from the dark font after so long, but wasn't that always the case? Giving in to dark impulses was so much easier than resisting them.

"_Pain_," Igor gurgled.

At his word, the protodrake let out a terrible scream and its back arched violently as pain arced through its body. It's talons spasmed, grasping him harder a moment before finally releasing him. Suddenly free, Igor blearily drew on the Light, finding it hard to do so immediately after drawing from the shadow. It was not impossible, though, and he at least managed to repair his savaged lungs. Drowning in his own blood wasn't very fun.

He was, however, still falling.

Not for long.

He hit something on his way down, and heard another solid thud in the aftermath. Anne grunted, having tried to catch him, and they'd both fallen down.

"Am I alive?" Igor wondered, staring up at the writhing protodrake and two remaining, circling vrykul.

"Looks like," she said, shoving him up off of her, "Can you walk?"

"I think my shoulders are dislocated," he said, trying to get up anyway. His brains felt too rattled to do anything more than he already had, and Anne grabbed him under his arms and started to drag him into the cave. She had, he noted, retrieved her shield and sword at least.

Off to the side, the vrykul hadn't been so lucky, landing directly on his head. Igor looked away quickly, sickened.

Anne dragged him into the mouth of the cave and stepped over him, standing between him and the opening.

"Heal yourself," she suggested, looking over her shoulder at him warily. She was worried. Even if they'd thinned the odds, what were the chances more weren't on the way?

Igor propped himself up as best he could and grit his teeth, using the cave wall to pop his shoulders back in. Even healing them immediately afterwards was agony, and by the time he got his arms working, the two remaining vrykul had landed. Their mounts snapped and snarled at each other but didn't fly away, the unruly things apparently only disobedient when their masters were prone.

The vrykul were terrifying, Igor decided. They were massive, built, and sported murderous expressions to match their wicked looking axes. He and Anne were supposed to _fight_ them? How!?

"Anne," Igor said, shuffling up behind her.

"Whatever you did to that drake to get away," she said thinly, "I hope you can do it again."

"I can try."

"You'll have to do a little better than that," Anne said, stepping forward out of the cave by a few paces. Though her head wasn't moving, he could tell her eyes were darting between the two vrykul who were fanning out, intending to flank them and make the fight one on one.

Igor couldn't fight, though. He wouldn't even know what to do with a sword. The best he'd ever been able to pull off was whacking people from behind with a stick, and he'd felt bad about that.

That didn't mean he was useless, though. Quite the contrary. He laid a hand on her back, willing the Light to protect her. A faint golden aura flickered around her and she offered Igor a grateful nod. It wouldn't protect her forever, but hopefully enough to give her an edge over the two vicious creatures.

They weren't stupid. Two of their own were dead, so it was clear they weren't easy prey. Even so, Igor imagined they looked rather pathetic huddled just in front of the mouth of the cave, spattered in blood and on the defensive.

Exchanging words in their rough tongue, one of them eventually nodded. Then, they both charged. One lifting his axe up over his head, the other angling it sideways. The two pronged assault was very straightforward – it didn't need to be fancy. They were much bigger, their weapons had longer reach, and as far as Ivan could tell, had every advantage.

"When I say 'now'," Anne whispered to him, "Hit the dirt."

"Okay," Igor said after a moment of hesitation. He wanted to ask her _why_, and what her plan was, but this was hardly the time.

The vrykul were both nearly upon them when Anne shouted (_"Now!"_) and he fell backwards, putting his hands up defensively out of instinct. Anne flattened herself as well and then rolled, the left vrykul slicing nothing but air while the right one's axe bounced off the stony ground. Both were caught off balance, and Anne slammed her shield into the one on the left, making him roar indignantly

Igor pleaded with the other vrykyl (_Righty and Lefty_, he thought whimsically) to go after Anne, and while it considered it, Righty narrowed his eyes at the prone Igor instead. He readjusted his grip on his axe and stalked forward. Scrambling backwards and trying to stand up at once wasn't terribly fruitful, but he managed it eventually, able to count the hairs in the vrykul's plaited beard as he bore down on the Forsaken.

He could hear Anne fighting with the other vrykul, but he couldn't see it, his vision filled with angry, axe-wielding murderer. This time, though, he didn't wait for Anne to leap to his rescue. He could make his peace later – right now, he needed to survive.

Drawing from the shadows (they were already seeping easily into his mind, nudging aside all his delicately orchestrated disciplines), he focused on the vrykul's mind intently.

He saw stars the next moment as the towering man kicked him, sending him sprawling. The corners of his vision were black and what he could see was swimming. Something metal gleamed, menacing, and he fought to stand again.

The vrykul wound back with his axe, bearing his jagged, yellowed teeth as Igor reached in deep for the spell again, shadow dancing between his fingertips.

He released it just as the vrykul began to swing, and the axe fell nervelessly from his grip as he clutched his head in agony. Igor stumbled to his feet and tried to pick the axe up – it was far too heavy – grunting as he tried to just shove it away. When that didn't work he stared dumbly at the slowly recovering vrykul. Blood was leaking from his nose and his ears, and he cracked one eye open, locking on to Igor.

He'd have to do better than that. And he really didn't have anything he _could_ do to top that. His reserves were already running low, switching between shadow and Light draining him more than usual. With the Light, it was easy to keep sustained, but shadow... especially since it had been so long since he'd practiced it...

The vrykul took a clumsy swing at him and he staggered back out of the way. Avoiding Ivan when he was drunk had given him quite a lot of practice for that. He'd also left the vrykul free to reclaim his axe which had barely budged.

He could do the attack again.

_It will kill him_, he protested to himself, brow furrowing even as the spell leapt almost instantly into his mind, _I'm not a killer_.

With a savage jerk, the vrykul snapped the haft of the axe into Igor's face and knocked him prone again, dragging the axe back up over his head.

_He is going to kill me if I don't kill him_, was his next thought.

Though it was a terribly inappropriate time to think of it, how many times had he seen Ivan finish something off without blinking? True, his twin was somewhat lacking in the conscience department, but he'd always been there to make sure Igor never got his hands dirty. How fitting, that by finally separating from him, he was immediately put into a situation to make up for that.

He released the spell again, grimacing at how it dropped the vrykul, lurching forward, face going slack as its brain was turned to mush.

_Look out you idiot_, he thought far too late. Though there was no more muscle behind it, the aim off, the vrykul had been mid swing again, only this he hadn't dropped his axe.

The blade bit into his shoulder, and he felt like he was outside his body in that moment, admiring how easily the honed metal sheared through his collar bone like it was butter. Then everything caught up, the heavy man collapsing on top of him, body twitching and jerking madly.

His head started to swim, unable to process any more pain for the moment. He'd lost a lot of blood when the protodragon had snatched him, and he couldn't even lift the axe, let alone the crushing dead weight of the vrykul on top of him.

"_Sissy!" the bully jeered, shoving Igor down. He was a portly boy, a spoiled son of some merchant, and the terror of the village. At least, to other children. Igor went down easily – he was scrawny, not much of a fighter, and already he was starting to cry. He couldn't help it – he hadn't meant to bump into the bully. He'd been wrapped up in his own daydreams, enjoying the sunny day, and heading to meet his twin at the creek. Ivan said he had something 'really cool' to show him. Ivan always found cool things._

"_Aren't yah gonna get up? Huh?" the bully asked, shoving Igor down again when he was halfway to his feet._

"_Leave me alone!" Igor protested, scrambling to his feet again and giving the bully a push. The bully's eyes widened, and then he slugged Igor in the stomach, making him double over._

_The blows seemed to come from everywhere, and Igor was powerless to resist. They were a short ways out of town, and there was no one around to stop it. Suddenly, though, it stopped, and Igor curled into a ball, whimpering. Had he finally grown tired?_

_He could hear more fighting, but he was too afraid to uncurl, too afraid the beating would start again._

"_Uncle! Uncle!" the bully shrieked, and Igor dared to peep out from between his arms. His twin – who had a bloody nose and a ferocious snarl on his face – had the bully's arms in a most uncomfortable position. Ivan was scrawny, too, but he wasn't weak._

"_Promise you'll leave my brother alone!" Ivan demanded._

"_I promise, I promise!" he wept. The bully howled as Ivan shoved him away, kicking him in the ass as he ran off, likely to go bawl to his father. It wouldn't matter. Their mother would be too drunk to care much. Maybe she'd beat Ivan. He wouldn't fight back._

"_Igor," Ivan said, touching his brother gently on the shoulder, "You dummy. Are you okay?"_

"_Sorry," Igor mumbled, "Sorry, Ivan. I'm not as strong as you."_

_Ivan exhaled a weary sigh and sat down next to his brother, waiting for him to recover, "That's okay."_

"_Thank you, Ivan," Igor whimpered. Ivan shrugged and looked away, absently swiping away blood with a hand. His eyes were already hard despite his young age, but he never complained._

"_Igor?"_

"_Yes?"_

_"Wake up, Igor," he said._

"I _am _awake," Igor muttered. Something struck him across the face and his eyes flew open, body lurching as it was forced back into consciousness. Igor let out a cry of shock as his pain caught up with him, reminding him that there was an axe buried in his chest.

Anne was crouched in front of him, her face smeared with blood, expression fraught with concern.

"Stay with me, Ivan," she said, cupping his face in her hands.

"It hurts!" he gasped, "_So_ much!"

"I know it does, and we're going to get it out, all right?" Anne said. Though her voice was calm, there was tight undercurrent of panic. It was bad, then. Very bad. He started to panic again but Anne forced him to stay calm, locking his eyes with hers.

"All right," he managed, nodding once and regretting it immediately.

"On three," she said, grabbing the long handle and bracing her shoulders. She didn't do so without a great deal of effort, he noted.

"Three," he repeated, fighting the desire to black out again.

"One... two..."

She yanked the axe out before three and Igor howled, clutching at the gaping, gushing wound with one hand. His arm had nearly been cut off!

Anne threw the axe away and pounced forward, pressing his limp arm back into place, shouting at him, "Heal! Heal it, Igor!"

Normally he beseeched the Light for its aide, begged it. Asked politely. Not now, though. His life was leaking out of him steadily and he didn't have time for anything but demands. He was shocked when his request was fulfilled, the deep gash mending together rapidly.

It wasn't without its price though – the healing wasn't gentle tingling, it was agony, and it wasn't long before things went black again.

* * *

Anne had never fought a vrykul before, and she hoped to avoid doing so ever again. Her shield was shattered, her sword notched and warped, her armor in tatters... it had been a vicious fight. And it had been over so quickly. She could scarcely believe she'd won.

It had been on a technicality, surely. He'd slipped in the gore of his fallen comrade and she'd pressed the advantage, driving the ruins of her sword into his eye with a primal howl.

For a few brief moments, she had wildly considered eating him to stabilize her wounds. She didn't often indulge in the act of eating sentient creatures, but such a defeat seemed to warrant it.

Then she'd remembered Igor.

She sighed and put the back of her hand near his nose, feeling for the slight hint of breath. Still there. He'd healed his more grievous wounds, true, but he was still very weak. So was she. They had lost time, and as the sun fell away from the sky a chill settled in with the darkness, daring her to go outside and get her flint and tinder from the saddlebags of her ruined mount. It had only stopped twitching an hour ago, and she privately mourned her faithful steed. Getting another one as complacent as that was likely not going to happen.

One of the protodrakes had stuck around, feasting happily on a vrykul corpse to pass the time. It had left awhile, perhaps to sun itself in the waning light, and had curled up at the mouth of the cave when the sun set.

If they wanted to leave the cave, they'd have to get past it. It was obviously staying where the food was – vrykul had a lot of meat on them.

She'd give Igor until sunup. Partly because she was in no condition to go anywhere just yet, and partly because she was hoping the protodrake would move in the morning, if only to sun itself.

Igor stirred and she immediately shushed him when his eyes blinked open. Though dim, both their eyes gave their position an eerie glow.

"We're still in the cave," she whispered, "Can you move?"

The priest shifted and she could hear his clothes rustling as he checked himself.

"I don't think I can walk yet," he whispered back, "Why are we whispering?"

"One of the protodrakes is at the cave entrance. I – _shh!_"

She hunched down when she heard a clatter of hooves on stone. It was difficult to make out what was going on in the low light, but Anne could see wings, and then heard a yelp as the winged figure threw something away from it.

"Well?" the voice coming from the winged figure was deep and cultured, but extremely disdainful. If it was a demon, though, why was it speaking common?

"The vrykul were certain our quarry was here!" a voice squeaked. Also in common, "I paid them handsomely, just like you said! I didn't skim any, I swear to you!"

"How could they have_ possibly_ gotten this far ahead? You cretin, I knew I shouldn't have put any faith in you."

"Please, my lord, _please_," the voice blubbered. Anne could vaguely make him out crawling towards his winged master.

"Does this look like the work of a Death Knight?"

"...yes?"

The blubberer was kicked away and he cried out. The winged thing wasn't happy.

"We've over shot," it determined, crouching down where Anne supposed one of the bodies were, "Something did happen to these vrykul, but it wasn't who we're after. They're only mutilated because their dragons ate them."

"Please, master," the other man groveled, "I only heard that they were after two Forsaken, and-"

"And did they mention the troll?"

"Well, no, but-"

"I think you would do well to shut up, now."

The groveler was silent at that and the master stretched his wings. They were massive, blotting out what little light there was until they settled onto its back. The nonchalance of it chilled Anne to the bone – she'd seen that kind of behavior before, up close.

Varimathras did it frequently when he was annoyed.

"I'll notify the troops, then, and we'll double back," the dreadlord snarled, "As for you..."

"Yes, my lord?"

There was a tearing sound, then wet gurgling, and then something heavy slumped to the ground.

The dreadlord said something unpleasant in eredun, the foul language making her feel like she'd just been covered in slime, and it took off.

Anne didn't dare even move for a very long time, Igor following her lead.

"They're close," Igor whispered.

"Very," she said.

_They're looking for _two_ Forsaken_, her heart sang, _Edgar is alive!_

* * *

Murdok had seen Shalar'zahn do some crazy things. He'd seen Ivan do ever crazier things. Combined, though, he was certain this was the craziest thing he'd witness yet.

He'd found them both huddled up over a musty tome, ignoring the immediate stab of jealousy he felt when anything remotely male was near Shalar'zahn, and they had informed them of their plan.

"_Scrying_," Igor had said proudly, "_It's so simple, it's perfect_."

Though the troll had nodded, his expression had clearly read 'And what is scrying, exactly?', because both Ivan and Shalar'zahn had laughed.

Shalar'zahn had explained it to him in simple terms, not because she thought he wouldn't understand, but because the ritual itself was very complicated even if the spells effect was not.

Using both the help of the spirits and Ivan's familiarity of the nether, they would be able to find where Makenzie was. Normally it only worked on the plane you inhabited, but apparently, with Ivan's help, they could stretch further. If she was within their reach, they would be able to find her.

And if he knew where she was, he could summon her. That easy. Except for the part that involved two complex rituals, of course, but Ivan and Shalar'zahn both seemed to think they could pull it off.

He'd helped them gather materials, though getting livestock from the stables hadn't been easy. They'd wanted to know what it was for, and he hadn't been able to give them an answer. With supplies being limited by the zeppelin, replacements were not easy to acquire.

Eventually, gold had loosened their grip, and he'd lead the bleating sheep back into the inn. The Innkeeper had raised both her eyebrows at him but didn't comment, and he certainly hoped whatever the sheep was for was worth it.

When he'd arrived with it, he'd discovered that his room (of course they'd use _his_ room) had all the furniture shoved to the side, making a clear space on the floor.

They killed the sheep promptly, draining its blood into a bucket.

Murdok was propped in the corner now, watching Ivan paint intricate symbols around a circle while Shalar'zahn decorated it with bones and baubles and other things she used to focus her own power. They worked rather well together, he thought, considering the vast disparity between their magics.

Finally, Ivan poured the remainder of the blood into a bowl in the center, and Shalar'zahn lit some red candles around it.

"Ready?" Ivan said, cracking his knuckles.

"No' yet," Shalar'zahn said, stepping out of the circle a moment. She started to disrobe and Murdok scowled.

"Whatya doin' dat fo'? Don' look!" he snapped at Ivan, who quickly looked at the ceiling. His eyes slowly drifted back down though – he couldn't help himself.

"It be part o' de ritual," Shalar'zahn said, nodding at Ivan, "Ya too, Ivan. We be callin' on Dambala an' ya' don' wanna offend him, eh?"

"What?" Ivan said, brow creasing together, "I don't see why I have to get naked. I think I'd be_ more_ offensive to Dambala naked."

"Yah," Murdok agreed. He tensed as Shalar'zahn stepped out of her vestments and picked up some of her red paints, casually tracing snake-like sigils on her turquoise skin.

"Dat not be how it works," Shalar'zahn said. She wasn't the least bit ashamed to be naked in front of either of them. Most trolls were like that, but Murdok was more concerned about Ivan taking advantage of the free show than her lack of modesty.

He didn't want to see the Forsaken man naked, either. Not ever.

"Take 'em off!" she barked at Ivan when she noticed he was still clothed.

"No!" Ivan protested, "It will effect my concentration."

"You wanna save Makenzie or not?" she pressed. Ivan's jaw clenched, wrestling with his pride rather visibly. On one hand, he had been given an order, which meant he couldn't obey it on principle. On the other, Makenzie needed to be found.

With a put upon sigh, Ivan began to shrug off his robes and Murdok grimaced, looking away. It had always creeped Murdok out a bit, the way most Forsaken's spines seemed to push through their skin in places, like their skin just didn't _quite_ fit.

The warlock cast his robe aside on a chair, still wearing breeches, and Shalar'zahn cleared her throat.

"I'm flattered and all-"

"Watch it, mon," Murdok growled.

"-but I really don't think-"

"Take it off or I take it off fo' yah!" the trolless said hotly.

"Promise?" Ivan grinned. Murdok cleared his throat and the grin faded. Ivan stepped out of his breeches and the troll rubbed his face. Just what he'd been itching to see – Ivan's bare ass. Did he had a _tattoo...? _Nope, he wasn't going to look that hard.

"Here," Shalar'zahn said, coming around the circle and starting to paint Ivan with sigils as well, "Gotta look nice for de' spirits."

Ivan muttered under his breath and eventually chased Shalar'zahn off, insisting he had enough 'stupid snake squiggles' on him to impress Dambala.

"Okay," Shalar'zahn said with a nod, "We ready den."

"Here goes nothing," Ivan said, exhaling heavily.

The two of them took opposite positions in the circle, kneeling down in the only two open spaces within it that weren't covered in either symbols or trinkets. They joined hands over the bowl of blood and closed their eyes.

Murdok would admit to being somewhat jealous that they had magic in common. Really, Shalar'zahn had more in common with the twins and Makenzie than him. Perhaps they shared a culture, but not much else.

Ivan began to chant a spell while Shalar'zahn began to beseech Dambala in Zandalari. The two languages seemed discordant at first, but the longer they were at it, the more they seemed to twine together. The air became charged with unspent power, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Shalar'zahn went silent a moment, arching her back and sighing as the Loa spirit reached out to her, hands sliding away from Ivan's. He continued to chant, but Murdok couldn't tell if it was a long spell, or if he was just repeating the same one over and over until it took hold.

She slumped forward, and then arched her back again, hands weaving a hypnotic, sinuous, serpentine pattern.

Murdok glanced down and noticed that the blood in the bowl had begun to froth and boil and he leaned forward slightly. It made his chair creak and he froze, cringing, but his disturbance didn't disrupt the ritual.

Suddenly, Shalar'zahn's eyes snapped open and she looked down at the blood. Her eyes were unfocused, or at least, focused on something Murdok couldn't see. She reached down with one hand and made a swirling gesture just over the bowl, spiraling up, and it seemed to draw the blood up and out of the vessel. The crimson liquid flattened and spread between herself and Ivan, becoming a smooth, reflective red circle.

Ivan slowly opened his eyes and his voice became harsher, more intense. Abruptly, both of them slashed their palms with daggers he'd only vaguely remembered them laying out, and they squeezed a drop of their own blood onto the disc.

It rippled and slowly, the blood became cloudy and black. An awful cold seemed to fill the room. Not a natural cold that settled slowly into his bones, but something alien, scratching at his skin and demanding he _take it off-_

Murdok shook his head and swallowed hard, finding it nearly impossible to do so without saliva.

Shalar'zahn remained quiet as Ivan droned out the spell, and after a moment, he plucked up Makenzie's silken hem. He seemed to hesitate a moment before throwing it in.

Instead of falling through the other side of the bizarre disc, it sank into the black void and vanished from view.

Even though the blood was solid black, Murdok could still see it_ lurch _somehow, and the surface rippled again.

It came back into focus, and the rogue gasped quietly. The edges were fuzzy and indistinct, only the center sharply clear, and he noted how Ivan and Shalar'zahn looked suddenly tense, their jaws working against some unknown strain.

They guided the window around, inspecting the room, finding a portal behind them made of the same terrible black they'd seen moments ago. There was a door as well, and they pushed through it, the vision floating almost lazily through the door and into a hall. It was all red flagstone and rusty colored iron. How architecture could look _vicious_, Murdok didn't know, but wherever this was, it pulled it off very well.

Murdok hadn't even realized there was sound until he heard the scream. The vision jerked a moment, becoming unclear, and Murdok realized it was because Ivan had lost his focus for a moment – he recognized the owner of the scream.

The vision rushed by in a blur, dashing around corners, through doors, until finally, it reached a heavy iron door. Pushing through, a massive laboratory was revealed. Murdok resisted the urge to look away from the grisly display. Mo'arg, and to a lesser extent, gan'arg, were working on... remains. Murdok couldn't even really tell what any of them used to be. Some of them were being stitched onto animals, or other demons, or just to other _limbs_. Others were having compounds tested on them, some of the limbs still twitching as though they were still alive, still able to feel pain.

More screaming. The vision surged forward.

There was a room attached to the main laboratory, much smaller, only one operating table in the center of the room. Trays upon trays of syringes and other wicked looking implements surrounded it, and there seemed to be a great deal of activity in the room. Only one mo'arg was present here, studying a chart while the gan'arg swarmed around, attending to whatever task he'd assigned to them.

Makenzie lay prone on the table, her wrists and arms strapped down, writhing in agony. Her normally wild puff of hair was matted to her skull, her expression twisted into a grimace of pain instead of her usual cheeky smile. There were multiple bags of some angry green liquid being fed into her veins via a tube, perhaps the underlying source of her agony.

The demons chittered to each other, and the mo'arg growled something, nodding at her.

One of the gan'arg chirruped in response and took a syringe off a tray, sliding it into an already bruised vein and drawing some blood. Makenzie screamed and thrashed, only making it worse for herself, but unable to just sit still and take the punishment.

The gan'arg snarled something at her and withdrew the syringe, admiring it in the hellish red light for a moment. Forsaken blood was dark green, normally, but hers had become the bright green like the bags hung next to her.

It let out a triumphant shriek and showed the mo'arg, who grunted and nodded, making some vague gestures.

Murdok had started to lean forward, enraptured by what he was seeing, when the vision abruptly stopped. The blood, no longer suspended by magic, spattered onto the floor, Ivan, and Shalar'zahn.

Shalar'zahn blinked rapidly, her eyes coming back into focused, and she looked at Murdok with an alarmed expression. He went to her side quickly, covering her with her discarded coat.

"Where be she? Canya summon 'er now?" Murdok asked, noting that Ivan had yet to speak. He eyeballed the Forsaken, wary of an outburst.

"We can't summon her from there," Ivan said, his voice eerily calm, "We'll have to go get her. Find the portal, and go get her."

"From _where?_" Shalar'zahn asked, "Where be dat awful place?"

Ivan finally looked at both of them, the lines of distress etched hard on his face.

"I think it's a forge world," he said grimly, "The portal will be easy to find, but going that deep into Legion territory-"

"Can't yah summon her?" Murdok pressed. He'd asked already, but he wanted an explanation.

"It's too deep in the nether for that," he said, "It might kill her."

"So, we goin' tah a Legion forge world, den," Shalar'zahn said, testing the words out loud. Murdok wondered if they tasted as insane as they sounded.

"Yep," Ivan said, standing up, "Let's go."

* * *

_**A/N:** The thrilling conclusion rapidly approaches! Oh my! Stay tuned!_


	11. Chapter 11

It was rather fitting, Edgar supposed. They had started their journey on foot, and unless some outrageously fortuitous turn of events unfolded in their favor, it seemed they would finish it on foot as well.

Despite the fact that they were being relentlessly (Hadn't he only recently sworn not to overuse the word?) pursued, Edgar felt a certain peace. Things couldn't possibly get any worse, at least not between himself and Yvette, and he could take small comfort in that.

She'd lost an eye, but like everything else, it didn't bother her. He couldn't tell if her brother's death was still troubling her and thought it best if he didn't question her on the subject.

He was very weary. Though he'd gotten some sleep, it hadn't been for long, and the cold had kept it from being very restful. A heaviness seemed permanently settled into his limbs. Would he ever feel his nose again? His toes? His fingers?

"Wait here," Yvette said, waving a hand behind her as she continued forward. Edgar didn't even question her, leaning gratefully against a tree and adjusting Tegan's sling. She burbled at him and he wiggled a finger at her, allowing himself a wan smile. He hoped that whatever Yvette had found or suspected she'd found, it wasn't anything overtly aggressive. If he had to fight, he didn't know how long he'd last.

_As long as I need too_, he thought immediately. They'd come too far for him to just keel over and give up. Yvette had just killed her own _brother_. _Again_. He could push through some fatigue and discomfort if she was still functional after all of that.

He looked up through the thinning canopy, putting a hand up to shield his eyes as the sun filtered through. It looked a bit cloudy, from what he could tell. Hopefully it didn't start snowing. Or raining. It was too cold for rain here, wasn't it? Edgar hoped so. He'd rather not find out personally, either way.

"Edgar," the Death Knight called out. He pushed off the tree and trudged past some with low hanging branches, taking care not to let any scratch Tegan as he shouldered his way through. Edgar squinted as he was hit full in the face by the sun, putting up a hand against the glittering, snowy expanse. With green in the distance.

"The fjord!" he exclaimed, unable to help but grin. Yvette, who was unable to do anything _but _grin, nodded.

"It will be more dangerous here," she said, watching him. Even with one eye, the intensity of her gaze wasn't reduced.

"Because of the vrykul?" he guessed, grin fading rapidly.

"Yes. And we'll be out in the open. The tree cover has provided us some respite," Yvette said, "But no longer."

Edgar exhaled and looked skyward. The clouds looked more ominous out in the open, despite the sun, and his momentary good cheer was quickly evaporating. There had been thin spurts of trees from wherever they'd begun, but from where he was standing, he couldn't make any out. Utgarde Keep glowered back at them, daring them to set one foot into vrykul territory.

Sharing a look with Yvette, they took the dare. Edgar tried to think positively. The snow wasn't as deep here, so walking didn't make every muscle in his legs scream in agony. On the flip side, with no trees to stand in its way, the wind certain gave credence to the name Howling Fjord. Edgar bent his head against the scouring winds, trying to tug his hood down further over his face. Though he'd been keen to watch the skies, Yvette could look after it.

"How long do you think it will take?" Edgar asked. He knew it hadn't been that long since they'd begun trudging, but a time frame would be something to hang onto if nothing else

"On foot, perhaps three days with minimal stops," Yvette answered, "Four realistically."

The Forsaken soldier grimaced and nodded. Even three days seemed like an eternity as the wind whipped around them, and he steeled himself for an arduous few days. Assuming they didn't get waylaid by the Scourge again. Or vrykul. Or the Burning Legion.

Edgar sighed. No matter how he tried to angle it, the carrot he was trying to put on the end of a stick was more of a half eaten, moldy trout. He'd just have to fall back on his own resolve, which was remaining surprisingly strong.

The longer he thought on it, the more he realized he was restless. He was already counting on them making it home, and he was just impatient to get there. If they could just skip all the battles they'd somehow manage to come out on top of, skip the ice cold and fitful nights, and just turn up at Vengeance Landing, he'd be_ much_ obliged.

Yvette stopped suddenly and he gladly turned his back to the wind, peering behind them, squinting at the tree line that they'd left further behind than he'd thought.

"What is it?" he wondered, speaking loudly as the wind tried to snatch away the words. Nothing was following them, at least.

"Something is coming," Yvette said. Though he'd have much preferred to credit the wind, her words sent a chill up his spine and he turned around, putting up an arm to block the wind so his eyes could open to more than slits.

He couldn't make much out on the ground, but the conspicuous black dot in the air forced another sigh out of his lungs. Great. What was it? Scourge? No, the Scourge were behind them. That left vrykul or the Legion.

"Vrykul?" he asked hopefully. Things were in a sad state of affairs, he thought wryly, when vrykul were something to hope for.

"No," Yvette said, crushing his meager hopes in an instant, "Demons."

She drew her runeblade and inspected it a moment, and Edgar did as well by proxy, having not much else to look at. The blade was still, after all she'd done with it, flawless. Even in the sunlight the runes etched on the length of the blueish steel (was it steel, or something else entirely?) glowed strongly. The edge still shone wickedly, and not even Antoine's black blood had stained it or chipped it.

"That's a hell of a thing," Edgar muttered, raising an eyebrow. He drew his own sword. Though the vrykul made weapon was sturdy, it had seen better days. Edgar had tried to keep it clean, but there was still blood he couldn't quite get out of the grooves. The edge had lost it wicked sharpness, and he had no means to rectify the situation. Just what he needed when fighting demons – a shoddy, dull sword.

He had considered, for a very short time, taking up Antoine's runeblade. She'd taken it and thrown it off into the woods however, away from their direct trail, and part of him figured touching the blade would be a great deal like touching Yvette – it would burn him.

Besides, the last thing he needed was to be mistaken for a Death Knight.

"There are a lot of them," Yvette said grimly, "They must've be based ahead of us, then. That doomguard had only been leading a scouting party."

"I don't suppose they'll try to bargain with us?" Edgar said. It was worth a shot.

"Not if it's just soldiers," she said, "I can't tell if they have their leader with them just yet."

"So do we have a plan?" he wondered. Yvette had surprised him with the vrykul, so he was hopeful that she had some idea of how to deal with Legion operatives.

"If there is no leader, we fight," she said, "If there is, Edgar, do you imagine you can pretend to threaten Tegan? Convincingly."

Edgar grimaced and looked down at Tegan, who fussed up at him, cranky with her situation in general. He'd gotten a little too attached to the troll baby, and he wasn't so sure he could do as Yvette asked.

"I'll take that as a no," Yvette said. Despite the seriousness of the situation, her tone was wry, "It's just as well. They'd probably kill us no matter what sort of deal we made with them."

"Great," Edgar said, "Sorry, Yvette. I've never been a very good liar. Or actor."

"Don't apologize for your humanity," she told him, holding his gaze for a moment, "_Never_ apologize for it."

He noted her distinct lack of emotional register and only nodded in response. She was still fairly torn up, then, about her brother. Most Forsaken _hated _humanity. He would admit to hating them sometimes, even though he himself had been one at some stage. Being called a monster and an abomination when, by and large, he _couldn't help it_ had always rubbed him raw. They were only doing what anything else did – trying to survive.

Edgar imagined that Yvette had been a very strong woman when she was alive, for so much of herself to persist through so much trauma. It was sad that Antoine hadn't been able to join her.

They sure could use another Death Knight or two to deal with the demons that Edgar could now make out. Yvette had started forward again, walking towards them without any hesitation.

"Should we maybe... maybe go back to the tree line?" Edgar asked. Something about demons set him on edge. They were real enough, but there were some things about them that just weren't_ right_. Not their outer appearance so much as their behavior. The distinct lack of morality, or at least mortality as Edgar knew it, made them terrifying and alien. What sort of species, collectively, believed in inflicting pain and chaos and still managed to prosper?

"They've seen us," Yvette said, "That we're just walking towards them has thrown them off."

"Can you see a leader of any sort?" Edgar asked, squinting. How was her eyesight so good, anyway? He could make out something winged overhead, "Another doomguard?"

"That's a dreadlord," Yvette said.

"Oh," Edgar said, and after a moment, "A _dreadlord?_"

"Nathrezim," she said, as though he might not have heard the term 'dreadlord' before.

"I _know_ what a dreadlord is," Edgar said, unable to tear his eyes from the ominous figure even as the wind made them sting, "What else?"

"Mostly felguards," Yvette said. Her tone was quite casual, and she could have just as easily been describing how many leaves there were on a tree, "Some warlocks, too. They're heavily cloaked, so I can't tell what they are."

"Yvette?" Edgar asked, feeling increasingly smaller.

"Yes?"

"How screwed are we?"

"Pretty screwed," Yvette replied. She looked over at him and put a hand on his shoulder. Even through her ragged gloves and his furs, he could feel the cold, "Unless you found the luck fairy."

"I think we may have cashed in all our vouchers with her," was Edgar's lame reply. He carried his sword point down with one hand, the other wrapped protectively around Tegan.

They continued the rest of the way in silence. When the two groups had drawn close enough that Edgar could make them out clearly, it started to sink in that they actually might_ not_ make it. The demons didn't seem the least bit bothered by the cold, and if the warlocks were, they weren't showing it, faces hidden deep within their voluminous cloaks.

Just when he'd started to think of a sort of strategy in his head, the dreadlord landed in front of the group and gestured to them lazily. The lot of them stopped obediently, and the cunning demon peered at them from across the fjord.

Edgar had seen a dreadlord before, of course. You didn't live in the Undercity without seeing Varimathras at some stage. Though he was a busy public official, he didn't spend all his time in the Royal Quarter. He certainly didn't mingle with his 'people', but he still had to go out amongst them, much to his obvious chagrin.

It was different seeing one in the... in the _wild_, so to speak, even if it seemed like a bizarre term. Varimathras was Sylvanas' servant, and if she was angry enough, her pet. He had a tighter leash than a Legion dreadlord would, at least in some respects, and though he was intimidating, you could be assured that you weren't in any real danger around Varimathras. So long as you weren't in trouble with the Dark Lady, anyway.

Not so here. The dreadlord standing before them looked a bit bigger than the Undercity's Majordomo. He certainly dressed more lavishly, his jet black armor gleaming wickedly in the sun, his green tinged wings drawn tight against the wind.

They continued to approach (on Yvette's cue only - Edgar would have been happy to stand still and just stare at the dreadlord as long as they were permitted too), and the dreadlord motioned one of the warlocks forward. Whatever they discussed, the warlock bowed deeply to the nathrezim and took his place behind the felguards a moment later.

Five felguards. Three warlocks. A dreadlord.

He _hated _this place.

It seemed fitting, Edgar thought, that as they were within a stone's throw of the dreadlord the wind stopped. Yvette seemed to take it as a cue, stopping and waving Edgar behind her.

"We finally meet face to face," the demon said snidely, watching Yvette with his keen burning eyes, "What's left of it."

"What do you want?" Yvette asked, "We're in a hurry."

"You've led us on quite a merry chase," the dreadlord said, his eyes lighting on Edgar, who was peeping around the Death Knight, "I must admit, I am impressed to some degree. Considering your limited resources-"

"Shut up," Yvette suggested. Edgar cringed when the dreadlord's sneering smile twisted into a scowl for a moment. That hadn't been a terribly smooth move on her part. It obviously liked listening to itself talk.

The nathrezim stretched out an arm, talons curling skyward, as though expecting something to be placed in it.

"Give me the child, and you may go on your way," he said, wings shifting slightly against his back.

Edgar pressed Tegan to his chest possessively, glaring at the demon. Maybe a Forsaken wasn't the best caretaker for a baby, but a dreadlord was probably the worst sort of parent imaginable. He was kidding himself, he supposed, if he thought that the dreadlord would see to things personally but... still. Just because there were a hell of a lot of demons didn't mean they were good parents. They probably all hatched out of eggs or were born from nightmares or something like that.

"If we don't?" Yvette asked.

"We'll_ take_ it," the demon said, flexing his hand slightly. Edgar saw that he had one hand behind his back, and noticed that the felguards and warlocks were beginning to creep forward. Though he'd almost certainly gestured for them to do so, he amused himself by thinking the demon has his fingers crossed behind his back.

"What do you intend to do with it?" the Death Knight asked. Her slow, measured demeanor was obviously wearing on the demon, who was likely used to a bit more groveling or bravado from his opponents.

"I don't think you need to concern yourself with that," said the dreadlord, "Just hand it over if you value what's left of your lives."

"Her name is Tegan," Yvette informed him.

The nathrezim's pale lip curled into a disgusted sneer, "I assure you that _Tegan_ will be well cared for."

Yvette turned deliberately and looked at Tegan and Edgar, then back at the dreadlord.

"What are your credentials?"

Edgar could tell what Yvette was doing, but it didn't make it any less nerve wracking. She was trying to wear the dreadlord's patience down, picking a fight. Since it was so deliberate, the nathrezim would likely stall longer in an attempt to appear more in control of the situation, to resist giving in to her baiting.

Judging by his expression, however, his patience was a tad shorter than most.

"Give me the child," he growled, wings opening slightly.

"No."

"Die, then," the dreadlord spat, clenching his open hand into a fist, "Do not expect mercy when you change your mind!"

He snarled something over his shoulder in eredun and launched himself up into the air, wings stirring up air a moment. Edgar allowed himself to be distracted by the take off, but the clatter of felguard armor snapped him sharply back into focus. The warlocks, curiously, weren't advancing. Less curious and more ominous, they seemed to be casting some sort of spell.

They'd cross that bridge when they came to it, he supposed.

The fighting was surreal. Most of the demons swarmed Yvette, only one of them attempting to fight Edgar. Whatever it had been ordered, it had involved not harming Tegan. Having the baby strapped to his chest was allowing him some margin of protection against a full demonic assault.

Small favor. It only meant it was trying to severe his limbs instead of outright crushing him.

He didn't even have a spare moment to check on Yvette, even though realistically he shouldn't have too. If anything, when he was surrounded by demons, that would be his tipoff that something had happened to her.

What he did catch a glimpse of, however, was the warlocks. The ground around them was beginning to crack, fel green light seeping through. He had no idea what they were doing, but it couldn't be good.

Edgar only just avoided a low swipe from the felguards sword, landing back on his feet clumsily and falling backwards. He kept his balance for half a second before falling completely back onto his as, making his jaws jar together painfully.

He looked up with wide eyes, hugging Tegan close to him and scrambling backwards. The felguard was really getting into the heat of the moment, and Edgar was beginning to worry that it wasn't going to go easy on him much longer.

Then he saw something that made him want to curl into a ball and weep. There was a slash of crimson off in the distance, closing rapidly, if erratically. Vrykul. Just what they needed right now, more people trying to kill them.

"Yvette!" he cried out hoarsely.

"I see it!" she shouted back, "Get closer!"

Edgar didn't know how he was going to do that, but if the vrykul was just going to sweep in on a protodrake and torch the lot of them, he'd rather be under one of Yvette's anti magic bubbles than cooking alongside a felguard.

Getting to her, however, was another issue entirely. The felguard on top of him wasn't giving him much room to maneuver, and when he glanced over his shoulder, all he could SEE was felguards.

A screech overhead tore his eyes upwards and he saw the protodragon swooping in, maw yawning wide as it belched fire out onto the group of warlocks. It was a bit of a clumsy pass on the riders part, the bulk of its breath striking the ground next to them, but it was close enough to set all three of them aflame. As they all screamed and scattered, trying to put themselves out, Edgar chanced a look at the rider.

Rider_s_.

Two Forsaken.

"_Anne!_" he blurted, completely oblivious to everything going on around him. She looked a bit roughed up, her expression quite cross as she struggled with the protodrake. The other Forsaken was clinging to her for dear life, his arms wrapped tight around her waist. Edgar didn't recognize him, but that was just like Anne, wasn't it? He could see white robes peeking out from under a tailored coat. Of course she would've brought a priest with her. Pragmatic to the core, even when she was on a daring rescue mission.

"Edgar!" Yvette shouted. He snapped back to reality and rolled away from the sword coming down for his head, dropping his own so he could grasp Tegan with both hands. It wasn't like the sword was of much use anymore. Being battered by a felguard had notched the already dull blade severely.

After his roll he dared a look up. The protodrake (_Anne was here, she'd come after him, he would have never even dared to hope!_) had banked around and was coming in for another pass. The felguard after him was yanking hard on the blade it had just buried into the frozen ground, snarling in frustration. There were at least two limbs on the ground near Yvette, but her four assailants didn't seem deterred.

The dreadlord. _Where was the dreadlord?_

Almost as if summoned by the thought, the demon swooped up behind the protodrake, talons shining wickedly as he rushed for the two unaware Forsaken.

"_ANNE!_" Edgar screamed, pointing emphatically. His outburst upset Tegan, but he was too focused on his wife's peril to pay much attention. Both Forsaken twisted in their seat and caught sight of the dreadlord, but to Edgar, it looked as though they were too late-

There was a flash of steel and the dreadlord spread his wings wide, effectively stopping his decent up short.

Seeing his wife on the back of a protodrake, waving a vrykul battleaxe over her head threateningly, Edgar had never been more in love.

A triumphant grunt told him that the felguard was back in action and he tore his eyes away. Anne still looked like she was struggling with the protodrake, and considering how temperamental they seemed, he was a bit worried for her.

Weaponless, Edgar scraped himself to his feet, backing away from the creature warily. His eyes darted around for his sword, but it was on the wrong side of the felguard. It bared its teeth at him, making Edgar cringe, and it advanced again.

With a hearty yell, Anne slammed into the felguard's head feet first. The momentum from launching herself off of the protodrake as it swept past was enough to help her bowl it over entirely. Somewhere out of his field of vision there was a thin yelp and then a thump, but he wasn't the least bit curious about it.

She hacked ferociously at the felguard's neck until it stopped twitching. Though Anne spared a glance at Yvette, she pulled the axe out of the fallen felguard and rushed over to Edgar. He ran to meet her, laughing wildly, and caught her waist, lifting her up and spinning her in one joyous, if clumsy, turn before bringing her close for an embrace, burying her face in her hair.

Tegan squawked in dismay at being squished between them and he laughed harder.

"What is-" she began.

"How did-" he said at the same time.

They both thought better of speaking just yet and kissed. Edgar cupped her face with shaking hands, scarcely able to believe what was happening. Against all odds, she had found him. He'd have to find the luck fairy and shake her hand. Maybe he'd even give her a hug, considering.

"I'm really sorry to interrupt," the Forsaken that had been with her wheezed, "But that woman could probably use our help. And I don't see the dreadlord anywhere."

Edgar broke away and looked over at the man. He was fairly tall, for a Forsaken, and made Edgar feel a great deal better about his bald spot. The willowy man didn't have a scrap of hair on him.

"Igor," the man said, offering his hand awkwardly, "Nice to finally meet you."

Igor looked like he'd seen better days. Edgar shook his hand and nodded at him.

"Stay with Igor," Anne said, turning on a heel and stalking towards the four demons accosting Yvette. Her armor had been rent and dented in so many places that it was barely even there anymore, but still she fought on.

_Relentless, _Edgar thought with a smirk.

"I thought my _brother_ was emasculating," Igor muttered, brushing off his coat and looking up at the sky pensively. Tegan squalled and he jumped, "What is that!?"

"Troll baby," Edgar said casually, "Her name is Tegan. We found her."

"Found her," Igor repeated.

"That's the story," Edgar grinned.

"That's a story I'd like to-look out!" Igor exclaimed, grabbing ahold of Edgar's sleeve. Edgar gasped as he was yanked _upwards_, pain blossoming in his shoulder as sharp talons dug into them. So sudden was the abduction that Igor actually wound up tearing off the sleeve of Edgar's fur coat.

"I'll take that," the dreadlord snarled furiously. Hovering midair, the demon made a clumsy grab for Tegan, but he couldn't do it without clawing her in the process. Edgar grit his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and glared at the demon.

"Over my dead body," Edgar spat back, immediately regretting it.

"That can be arranged!" the nathrezim informed him. If it weren't for the fact that the demon was trying to find the most efficient way to kill Edgar and spare Tegan, Edgar might have appreciated the heat radiating off of him.

Narrowing his eyes, the demon wrestled Edgar into a different position, losing some altitude in the process. Edgar watched defiantly, but a moment later regretted making eye contact. When he went to glance down at the ground, he found he was compelled to keep staring into the dreadlord's eyes. His mind thrashed wildly when it realized what was happening. No! He refused to be manipulated so easily-!

What felt like icy knives suddenly sank into his leg, snapping him out of the spell with a ragged gasp. The knives seemed to bury themselves deeper, hooking into him, and suddenly he was going _down, _torn _away_ from the demon's grasp. Edgar let out a cry as dreadlord's talons raked over his flesh, and then he hit something colder than the knives had been, the wind knocked out of him.

"Be more careful," Yvette said, shoving him roughly away from her. There were only three felguards left now, two still on Yvette, while the third (sporting only one arm) was battering Anne.

Edgar gasped to regain his breath and gentle hands helped him up. Tegan was full on wailing now, very unhappy with all the noise and rough bumps, and Edgar nodded at Igor.

"He's not happy," Igor observed, keeping his eye on the dreadlord, who was circling the battlefield like a vulture.

"He basically ripped my shoulder off," Edgar muttered, trying to move it. Igor laid his hands on the wound and concentrated, but Edgar noticed he only repaired some of the deeper damage.

"I'm sorry, that's all I can do," the priest said, "I've had a very trying few days. I'm taxed."

"It's all right," the soldier said, slapping Igor on the back, "I think it's about over now."

Igor winced but nodded, absently rubbing where Edgar had slapped. Not the sturdiest fellow, was he? Leaving the priest to his own devices, he kept an eye on Anne as she helped Yvette finished off the felguards. Despite the fact that they were losing steadily, the demons fought tooth and nail.

Anne and Yvette closed in on the last one, Yvette facing it, Anne behind, when Anne happened to glance over at Edgar. She offered him a cheeky wink and he grinned back at her, startled when her expression faded to something more alarmed. Abruptly, she changed course and charged towards him, waving at him wildly.

"Edgar! Get down!" she exclaimed, eyes wide. Edgar grunted as Igor shoved him out of the way, and from his position on the ground he saw that the priest was directly in the swooping dreadlord's path. Obviously he'd lost track of the demon, distracted by Anne and Yvette systematically dismantling the felguards.

"Igor you _idiot,_" Anne grunted, checking Igor rather roughly with the haft of her axe. He yelped and pitched forward. Edgar's eyes widened.

No longer picky who he grabbed, the dreadlord snatched Anne adroitly and soared upwards.

"Yvette!" Edgar exclaimed, scrambling to his feet again, "Yvette, get Anne! Like you did with me!"

Yvette, her sword up to the hilt in the remaining felguard's belly, looked over at him and then up, before saying, "She's too far away."

"Shit!" Edgar exclaimed hoarsely, running his hands through his hair. Everything had been perfect just a second ago. He should have grabbed a weapon and helped instead of standing on the sidelines with Igor. Igor who was supposed to be _watching_ the dreadlord!

Igor's eyes were fixed upwards as well, watching the two shapes struggle with each other.

"Look out, _look out!_" Igor exclaimed frantically as an axe came plummeting to earth. It sank in solidly, hitting nothing of consequence. Yvette joined Edgar and Igor, looking upwards along with them.

Edgar could only watch as his wife struggled futilely with the demon. Tegan had prevented the dreadlord from unleashing on him. Anne did not have such good fortune. He paced back and forth, beside himself, feeling like he was going to throw up. Edgar couldn't even remember the last thing he ate, either.

"Please, _please_," he begged quietly. The dreadlord dropped altitude suddenly and Edgar strained to see what was going on. Anne was very skilled, but a dreadlord in hand to hand combat, _midair?_ No, she'd swooped in to save him on a protodrake. She could do anything.

The nathrezim released Anne a few feet off the ground, letting her drop from his grasp with a disdainful sneer. Her body crumpled on the ground like a rag doll, as if there was no resistance in her at all.

"Anne, _ANNE!_" Edgar shrieked. A cold hand caught his arm and kept him from moving forward until the dreadlord soared back up into the sky again, out of sight. As soon as he was free he roughly unshouldered Tegan and thrust her at Igor, sprinting to Anne's side and falling to his knees beside her.

She was barely recognizable, covered in long, deep lacerations. Edgar only stared a moment, reaching out tentatively and jerking his hands back, terrified of somehow making things worse. Was it _possible_ to make things worse? That thought spurred him forward, and he gingerly put a hand behind her head, lifting it up slightly.

"Anne...?" he asked hoarsely. With his free hand, trying not to shake too badly, he pushed some of her thick hair away from her face.

This simply wasn't happening. Not at all. He was having a dream, a terrible dream, and he'd wake up from it any moment now. Yvette's prolonged presence was just giving him nightmares, was all. Edgar gathered Anne up and cradled her limp upper half against his chest, burying his face in her bloody hair.

He was aware of his body lurching, of wracked, inarticulate sounds coming from his throat, tearing at it. Try as his body might, it couldn't quite manage tears. It was the final insult, really. After everything she'd done for him, he couldn't even cry to mourn her.

* * *

Igor hadn't been very thrilled with Anne's protodrake idea, but for a moment, as they'd soared in and interrupted some dark warlock ritual, he'd started to see why everyone seemed to like adventuring so much. Their entrance had been downright heroic, straight out of a book, even.

As things had unfolded, however, their heroics had taken a dark turn. What adventure tale ended with the heroine dead in her husbands arms?

Could he put this one on his blame list? He'd gotten distracted by the fight, lost track of the dreadlord, and then... no. No, he'd _tried_. He'd put himself in harms way. After all Anne had risked, she hadn't deserved to get it snatched away.

But then she'd taken it a step further and rendered it all moot anyway.

The baby he'd been handed wriggled and waved her arms, starting to slip out of her swaddling, and Igor absently readjusted it for her. He glanced over at the Death Knight – Yvette, Anne had said – but reading her face was an impossible feat. Her single eye was fixed on Edgar for now, and she seemed disinclined to comment.

Igor wondered what it would have been like for Ivan, if he'd been presented with his twins body. Would he react like Edgar was? His entire body shaking with grief that it couldn't fully express? It was a terrible thing to witness but he forced himself to watch. This was why the Burning Legion was so terrible. If it hadn't been for the Legion, none of them would be Forsaken in the first place. Sometimes it seemed so easy to lose sight of that simple fact.

"We should keep moving," Yvette finally said, her hollow voice sending chills up Igor's spine.

"I think he needs more time," Igor replied quietly, "He's just lost his wife. Perhaps he'll want to lay her to rest-"

"If you believe the dead stay buried here, priest, you are more foolish than you look," she snapped at him. Igor flinched, expecting to be struck, but she had only lashed out with words.

"Well, what are we going to do with the body-"

"Carry it."

"That's a bit traumatic, don't you think?" Igor protested.

"We will do whatever Edgar wishes," Yvette pressed. Igor opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it, swallowing, "Is there more in your rescue party on foot? Or was it just you?"

"There were... well, we were five, but we split up," Igor explained, "My brother's... girlfriend was kidnapped by the Legion. A dreadlord, actually."

He blinked rapidly, the weight of his words sinking in. Dreadlord's weren't the commonest of creatures. If one had snatched Makenzie, it held to reason that the same one was after the baby troll.

Tegan.

Shalar'zahn wasn't going to approve of that name at all.

So what would a dreadlord want with a Forsaken and a baby troll, exactly? The two things seemed so wildly incongruous that he couldn't even find the slimmest of parallels.

Yvette walked forward and knelt next to Igor, and he hung back, as much as he was curious to hear what they were talking about. As it turned out, they didn't whisper, and he could hear quite clearly. It was a bit odd, how fiercely protective the Death Knight seemed to be of Edgar.

"Edgar," she said. Yvette didn't touch him, didn't even make a move too, but Edgar stiffened, "We cannot stay here. The Scourge will pick up the trail."

"It doesn't matter," he replied, his voice muffled, "You go. There isn't anything left for me."

Yvette was silent a moment, considering his words, and she gestured back.

"What about Tegan? If not for you, Edgar, she would have likely died of exposure," Yvette said, "You gave her life."

"What sort of life can I give her?" he said. Igor's heart broke for the soldier. There weren't words to describe just how crushed his spirit was.

"You can't stay out here, Edgar," Yvette insisted.

"Just leave us," Edgar said sharply, "At least if we're turned into ghouls we'll be togeth-," his voice hitched, but he steeled himself to say, "Together."

Yvette touched him then, grabbing his upper arm and squeezing. Just watching it made Igor flinch, and Edgar looked up at her.

"She came for you," Yvette said harshly, "I cannot even imagine the turn of events that led her to ride to the rescue on a protodrake. I cannot imagine all that she sacrificed in order to reach you. If you throw your life away now, Lieutenant Edgar Jerrik, you will violate her memory and her wishes so grossly that even _I _will be unable to stomach it."

Edgar swallowed a few times, despair etched into his face. He looked down at Anne again and let out a small whimper, fingers curling into her tattered armor.

"I will drag you back to Vengeance Landing if I have too," Yvette told him, "You gave me life, too, Edgar. I would have never considered the possibility that I am more than just a monster."

"She came for me," Edgar said in a small voice.

"You have the singular privilege of being able to remember her forever for her bravery and devotion," Yvette said, her own voice softening some, "Don't let it consume you, Edgar. It isn't what she would want."

Igor braced himself for shouting, for accusations and wild blame placing, for _anger_ most of all, but it didn't come. Whatever had passed between Edgar and Yvette was more than acquaintance. He approached slowly, thinking that perhaps the familiar comfort of the baby troll might ease him some.

"We have to take her body with us," Edgar said thickly, shouldering off his thick vrykul furs, "She was a proud soldier of the Undercity. She'll want to be buried there."

"I will carry her," Yvette said solemnly. She released her grip on his arm as he shrugged off the coat, standing so he could lay it over her. Edgar paused a moment and crouched again, pulling off one of Anne's gauntlets. Shakily, he pulled off a gold band and pocketed it, draping the coat over her. He hesitated a moment, realizing he'd need to bundle her up in it, and Yvette waved him off.

Edgar nodded in silent understanding and turned away, blinking at Igor.

"I'm so sorry for your loss Mr. Jerrik," Igor said quietly. He steeled himself again, expecting accusations, but Edgar only nodded and held out his arms. The priest was happy to hand the squirmy baby off to him, and looked away as Edgar embraced the tiny bundle, wriggling his fingers at her to make her giggle.

It didn't make him smile, but it seemed to give him some peace. Edgar fixed the sling while Yvette wrapped Anne in the coat with surprising reverence.

"I don't suppose you can call that protodrake back?" Yvette asked, holding the bundle of furs up like they weighed nothing.

"No," Igor said, "I'm surprised we stayed on it as long as we did."

Yvette started walking at that, without explanation, and Igor's brow creased slightly. She was rather rude, wasn't she? Edgar seemed to be unaffected, following after her without a word or a thought, his eyes fixed firmly ahead. It was clear he was still in agony, but Yvette's talk had convinced him to hold out just a little longer.

It was going to be a very long walk home, and an even longer zeppelin ride. They'd all be riding home on Anne's dime, after all. Technically Edgar's too, he supposed. All things considered, he didn't envy Edgar, and the entire situation was making him worry.

Makenzie had very likely been kidnapped by the same dreadlord they'd just dealt with. They'd put it in quite a foul mood.

He hoped his brother was being careful.

...well, he hoped Murdok and Shalar'zahn were _making_ him be careful. For all their troubles, Igor only had one brother, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing him for any reason. At least Edgar had been present, even if he'd been powerless to do anything. Was that better or worse?

Igor hoped he never had to find that out for himself.

* * *

_**A/N:** A bit shorter than usual but it was traumatic to write this chapter okay D:_


	12. Chapter 12

Ivan was starting to get very annoyed. He_ knew_ there was a portal somewhere along the coast. The nether surged here, infused his thick blood with a rush of power that made him ache for an opponent to unleash it on. A dreadlord, maybe. Just for starters.

Never a patient man by any means, knowing that every moment he spent stumbling around for the portal was another moment Makenzie spent in agony was wearing on what thin vestiges of sense he had left.

It had always been an unspoken rule with himself, to never let Makenzie frown for very long. She had a smile that lit up a room, and he did all he could to ensure she had every reason _to_ smile. If anyone knew how truly pathetic he was around her, they would find him immensely less intimidating.

"Not'in up de coast, mon," Murdok called out as he and Shalar'zahn rode up. The raptor danced in place a little, still skittish around the snorting felsteed, "Not dat I could see."

"It's _here_," Ivan hissed, scowling out to sea. The water was black here, and though he'd never been one to appreciate nature in any state, he found himself missing the pristine blue oceans of Stranglethorn in that moment. Here, the inky darkness of the water seemed ominous, clutching the secrets of its depths, hoarding even the fish from sight.

He had considered that the portal was out at sea, but crafty as demons were, they also hated inconvenience. There was no way a dreadlord was going to swim through frigid waters to a hidden portal. It wouldn't suffer the indignity of being wet.

So, it had to be somewhere. Massive, twisting portals that pierced the nether and yawned into a Legion stronghold couldn't hide forever.

"Mebbe if we wait, concealed," Murdok suggested, "We see a demon use de portal, eh?"

"We don't have that kind of time," Ivan growled at him, "You saw what they were doing to her."

"Still don' get what was goin' on dere," the rogue muttered, looking unsettled. Shalar'zahn remained silent, scowling at their surroundings.

"They were doing an experiment on her," the warlock said through his teeth, "Didn't say what, exactly, though."

"Poor t'ing," Murdok sighed, shaking his head. Both trolls had expressed their sympathies for her, both in general and to Ivan specifically, and he was growing quite tired with them. It went without saying that what was happening to her was horrible, and that they would help her. Talking about it just wasted air.

Seeing her strapped to a table like that.. if he could get away with it, he would slaughter every last demon in that laboratory. If anything _unfixable_ had happened to Makenzie, if she was_ killed_... he'd level the building. He didn't care if it was a tower on Xoroth itself, he would level the entire compound so they knew they'd made a terrible error screwing with the only thing that didn't think he was a miserable asshole with a drinking problem.

Lofty claims, he supposed, but it was easy to underestimate just what a destructive force the nether was. It was raw, untapped power. It wasn't like elemental magic or troll voodoo, controlled by spirits and empathetic to those drew from it. Cold, unfeeling power cared little for those that wielded it had no qualms devouring everything in its path.

The prickling that the portal energy did to his skin began to fray his very last nerve, and then he had an idea. An idea he should've had _hours_ ago.

Sliding off his mount, he banished it (dodging a stray kick from the steed, that _scamp_) and began to summon his voidwalker. Shalar'zahn and Murdok exchanged glances but didn't dismount – neither of them trusted any of his demonic minions, and he supposed he couldn't blame them. The only reason they obeyed Ivan was because he'd enslaved them. They had no qualms about taking out their frustration on others.

His voidwalker coalesced with an echoey hiss, its body bulging and contracting, as though its essence were barely contained in some thin film. A giant blue sausage, Ivan liked to consider it. Makenzie fondly referred to it as 'Blueberry', something that made his voidwalker seethe in impotent rage.

"Bargak," he addressed, looking up slightly at the void demon, "I want you to point out the the largest concentration of nether."

It paused a moment, the unblinking pinpricks of blue light on what passed for its face boring into him. Then Bargak lifted a shadowy claw, nether wafting off of it like smoke, and pointed it at Ivan.

Ivan pursed his lips.

"Very flattering Bargak," he said, not appreciating the demons cheek, "Anything else?"

Bargak pointed at him(_it?_)self and Ivan glared powerfully.

"One more try," he hissed at the demon, clawlike fingers clutching the air menacingly. This is what he got, he supposed, for being unnecessarily flippant with his demons. Most warlocks at least bothered with _some_ respect. Ivan, personally, thought it was a bit silly to treat a_ slave_ with respect.

The voidwalker turned and pointed to the cliff. Ivan scowled at the solid cliff face, but didn't do anything just yet. If it was simple as a false cliff face...

He picked up a rock and tossed it towards where Bargak had pointed. Instead of bouncing off stone, it passed through. It didn't make a sound on the other side, likely the thrum of the portal canceling out most sound. That, or the portal was directly behind the illusion.

"I can't believe it," Ivan muttered. Murdok and Shalar'zahn slid off the raptor, and Murdok slapped its flank affectionately. Ivan banished the voidwalker without another word and stalked towards the cliff face. He paused directly in front of the false wall, holding his hands out, feeling the energy even more intensely. It was a rather clever spot for a portal. Quite discreet. How many of them dotted the landscape, unobtrusive and unseen?

"Dat be it den, in dere?" Murdok said, brow creased, "Mebbe we should 'ave a plan, mon."

"Our plan is to rescue Makenzie," Ivan told him, moving to walk in. Shalar'zahn caught his arm and he snarled at her, "What!?"

"Murdok be right," she told him sternly, though she did release him, "Gotta be mo' den 'c_harge in an' win_'. Dat be a Legion fortress, yah? I bet dere be guards on de odda' side."

"We didn't see any when we scryed," Ivan insisted, "Why would they be there now?"

Shalar'zahn frowned and looked at Murdok for backup. The male troll only shrugged and shook his head, unable to argue.

"We still be needin' a plan!" the shadow hunter insisted crossly, "Ain't gonna do nobody no good if we run in an' jes' get our guts ripped out by demons!"

"We'll just avoid the gut ripping part," Ivan assured her.

"You bot' be stupid," she growled.

"Coming?" he asked her pointedly.

"Yah, yah," the trolless said, throwing her hands in the air, "Came dis far."

"Good," Ivan said, turning and walking into the cliff face. His hypothesis had been correct, as the only thing between the portal and the beach was the thin illusion.

Heat hit him like a blast wave and his eyes adjusted to the dimmer, dull red light coming from the wall sconces. There wasn't a window in this room, so it was impossible to say where they were, exactly, aside from inside a building.

The room itself was quite large, dominated by the massive iron door in front of him. As they'd seen before, however, their were no guards. There seemed to a constant, distant thrum beneath his feet. Whatever this world had been, it was now, to its literal core, a cog in the Burning Legion war machine.

Ivan stepped aside, not speaking as the trolls came through shoulder to shoulder. He fought not to sneer something at them – even he understood the implications of their reunion.

"Hottah den' hell!" Shalar'zahn whispered, shrugging off her coat. She paused a moment and started to throw it back through when Ivan's grabbed her wrist, shaking his head.

"If anything comes through-"

"Bettah somethin' on de outside see dan inside, yah?" she said pointedly, "Least de lattah we can get away fastah."

"Fine," Ivan grunted. It wasn't like this was the most foolproof plan. Really, it wasn't a plan at all. He tossed his coat through the portal after the trolls did, the heat still oppressive and heavy. It wasn't just the heat that made it that way, though. The sheer focus of power here made the air itself charged, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth.

"Now wha'?" Murdok wondered.

"Scout ahead," Ivan suggested.

"You jokin', mon," the troll responded flatly.

"No, I'm not," he said, "You're the sneaky one."

"Whatta 'bout dat eyeball 'ting you got eh?" Murdok persisted, looking warily at the massive iron door, "Spy wit' dat."

"I'll send it with you, so we'll be alerted if you get caught," Ivan said, "But you have a better memory than I do. You remember the path to the laboratory?"

Murdok grimaced, but he nodded, and Ivan offered him a less than charming grin.

"Check and see that the path is clear, would you?" he asked, flicking his wrist. A strange green eyeball flared to life in his palm, the weird orb jerking around somewhat mindlessly. Ivan's own eyes went unfocused as he used the Eye of Kilrogg to see instead.

"I keep watch, den'," Shalar'zahn groused, reaching out to squeeze Murdok's hand, "Yah be careful, eh?"

"Yah," Murdok said, squeezing back. He moved over to the door, the eye bobbling after him, "Ivan, dat t'ing be a bit conspicuous, yah?"

"Yes, one moment," Ivan snipped. His brow creased and the strange orb shimmered once before vanishing from sight.

"Back soon," the troll said, pulling the iron door open with his teeth grit. When it swung open easily, silently, hinged well greased, he looked surprised. Only for a moment. He slipped out and closed it without making a sound, and Shalar'zahn exhaled a heavy sigh.

"Dis be crazeh," Shalar'zahn muttered. Ivan could hear her shifting closer to the door, but he focused on following Murdok instead. He would never praise Murdok out loud, of course, but he deeply admired the troll's knack for stealth. The shadows in the long hallway were deep, the red light casting everything in sharp relief. So far, so good. Murdok moved with practiced ease, not making a sound, and there wasn't anything in the hall that could have spotted him otherwise.

The corridors seemed to be arranged in some sort of grid, the architecture grim and without any sort of comfort. There were no adornments aside from the lurid sconces that lined the walls, the red stone occasionally interrupted by imposing doors.

"Find anyt'in'?" Shalar'zahn's voice intruded into his spying and he curled is lip into an irritable sneer.

"I'll let you know if he does," he told her shortly.

"If yah weren' keepin' an eye on him, Ivan, yah'd get such a smack," she informed him.

"_Shh!_" Ivan hissed. It wasn't as though the eye was two way, but he was trying to listen to what was going on around Murdok, not the inane bitching of a grumpy troll.

Murdok peeped around a corner and hesitated, so Ivan shifted the eye further into the hall to inspect. It was some kind of central chamber, with more tunnels branching off of it. From his vantage, he could see a gaggle of gan'arg shuffling down a corridor to the far right.

The chamber, however, was occupied with a dreadlord. He was resplendent in thick cloth as well as flashy armor, suggesting his station was one of great importance. Murdok caught sight of that and flattened himself back around the wall, obviously alarmed. Ivan understood his reluctance – what were the chances that the glowering demon wouldn't spot him?

As luck seemed to have it, heavy clopping signaled the arrival of another dreadlord. This one was a tad smaller, and before his taller fellow turned, he had an anxious expression on his face, armor spattered with Ivan thought was safe to assume as blood. Though they spoke in eredun, which Murdok wouldn't be able to understand, Ivan listened intently.

"My lord...?"

The larger dreadlord turned and sneered in disgust, making a laconic gesture at him.

"By the Deceiver, Horuk," he said, "You're a disgusting mess," he paused and his eyes flashed dangerously, "And empty handed, I see."

"Lord Fazrimet, I can explain-"

"I've had enough of your pathetic excuses," Fazrimet said. Despite his obvious anger, his voice was still pleasant and even, "You were charged with a very simple task. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, but-"

"Apprehend a child from two Forsaken," Fazrimet interrupted, "A _child_, Horuk. From two shambling corpses."

"One of them is a Death Knight, _my Lord_," Horuk practically spat, his voice strained somewhere between angry and afraid, "It has proven to be quite confounding, and both times we stumbled upon them was with a small force."

"You do realize how _important _it is, don't you?"

"Of course!" Horuk bristled, spreading his wings angrily, flapping them once, "With my limited resources, however, it's been very difficult-"

"Oh,_ difficult_, is it?" Fazrimet sneered, false sympathy twisting his sonorous voice, "I'm so very sorry for you, Horuk. Perhaps I should just regulate you to snatching half drowned Forsaken for your little side project...?"

"That isn't necessary," Horuk said tightly, reigning in his anger and folding his wings, "They're on foot. I just need to requisition some more troops and I'll be able to-"

"You've bungled this enough," the taller nathrezim remarked shortly. Horuk seethed at the constant interruption but did not comment.

Ivan noticed then that Murdok was no longer lurking in the hallway. Jerking the eye around, he only just caught him slipping down the corridor the gan'arg had.

_Sneaky bastard_, Ivan thought with hearty approval. He was somewhat reluctant to leave the rather fascinating conversation, but they were quite engrossed in their talk, so it was the perfect time to slip his little spell by them.

"Whatcha smirkin' at?" Shalar'zahn asked.

"Murdok just snuck past two dreadlords."

Shalar'zahn grunted in dismay, "Yah supposed tah tell me if somethin' is happenin'!"

"Forgot," Ivan said shortly, "Shut up."

Shalar'zahn muttered something uncomplimentary in Zandalari.

As Lord Fazrimet began to dress down the other dreadlord, Ivan finally caught up with Murdok, only able to find the troll when he slipped from one shadow to another. This hallway was a bit busier, with gan'arg and mo'arg flitting between rooms, sometimes pushing carts or carrying trays loaded down with dubious substances and tools.

Unconsciously, Ivan strained to hear... something. Something he'd rather not hear, but at the same time, at least he could be reassured that she was still alive. It was slow going in the hallway and Ivan pressed the eye high into the ceiling, wary of it being detected.

The hall cleared suddenly, preceded by the heavy strike of hooves against stone and Ivan whirled the eye. It was Horuk, his expression black and his posture tense. No wonder the gan'arg had been falling over themselves to get out of his way.

It was lucky, Ivan decided, that he'd failed in his task. Otherwise, he might not be so focused on being angry and have noticed the troll hiding behind an abandoned specimens cart. Once Horuk had stalked past, Murdok took advantage of the cleared hallway and followed swiftly.

Pushing open a chillingly familiar door, Murdok ducked in before it could swing closed, and Ivan paused a moment in the grisly room. When they'd scryed, it had been full of mo'arg and gan'arg running all manner of vile experiments – now it was empty, the only hint of their foul machinations the dark blood stains on their equipment.

Horuk flung open the door that led to Makenzie and Ivan swiftly left Murdok behind to see for himself, tucking the eye away in a shadowy corner.

She still looked miserable, prone on the operating table, her arms strapped in two places to keep her from shaking loose the needles. Her eyes were closed, and even the dreadlord's sudden entrance hadn't woken her. Ivan's chest tightened – that was _his girl_ lying there.

The dreadlord didn't wake her right away, perhaps lost in his own thought. He picked up a neat stack of papers sitting on a tray and flipped through them, though Ivan couldn't tell if his frown was reflective of his recent reprimand or of what was written on the papers.

Makenzie groaned softly and Ivan felt panic well up inside of him.

_No, no, don't wake up!_ He pleaded to her silently.

"Wat's goin' on?" Shalar'zahn broke in, and he bared his teeth at her so she would _shush_.

One amber eye opened a slit, and then both blinked open. She seemed a bit more lucid than when he'd seen her writhing in agony, and he held his breath as he watched.

"Mmm?" the dreadlord rumbled, noticing that she'd stirred, "Awake already? You're a resilient little thing, aren't you?"

Makenzie flexed her arms against her restraints and regarded the dreadlord nervously, shifting her legs on the table.

"I figured you were," Horuk continued, setting the papers aside and leaning closer to her, inspecting her like she was a prize cow. He grabbed her chin and turned her head from side to side, "Coming along nicely."

"What'd you do?" Makenzie asked. Her voice was cracked and hoarse, and seemed so small and frail compared to the sinister baritone of the dreadlord, "What'd you do to me?"

"Well I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise," the demon said, smiling at her ferociously, bearing his fangs, "We're not quite done yet, anyway. Lord Fazrimet_ himself _is going to oversee the final stage. What an _honor_."

His tone was snide, obviously sarcastic, and Makenzie's delicate brow knit together.

"You really _are_ a remarkable specimen," Horuk continued, tilting his head, "You're certain you don't remember anything from before you were raised?"

"I dunno why I'd tell you if I did," she pouted at him. Ivan couldn't help but grin, even if it was tight – if she was still able to sulk, then she was in better shape than he'd thought.

"You are very lucky, little girl, that this experiment requires you to be undamaged," he scowled. Whatever curiosity he'd had was satisfied then, because he turned to stalk out of the room. The demon paused a moment, his eyes drifting around the room, and Ivan quickly ended the eye.

He stumbled a little, readjusting to his normal sight, and Shalar'zahn stabilized him. Her turquoise skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat, now, and he cared to bet that Murdok was the same. Nathrezim had good noses, so it didn't bode terribly well.

Shalar'zahn raised her eyebrows at him encouragingly, and as he opened his mouth to speak, the door pushed open. They both whirled, ready to fight, but it was only Murdok.

"Dat big un' still be in de central chamber," the rogue said without preamble, "Goin' ovah papers or somet'in'. What we gonna do?"

"Distract him," Ivan decided, resolute.

"Yah, an' how we gonna do dat wit'out getting' kilt?" Shalar'zahn wondered, going over to Murdok and resting a hand on his shoulder. They weren't completely made up yet, then, with such bare affectionate gestures. On their way, at least, to forgiveness.

"We aren't going to distract them," Ivan said, "Hedizza is."

"Hedizza? Is dat' yo' succubus?" Murdok said with great disdain.

"No, it's my felhunter," Ivan snapped as he summoned her, "Of _course_ it's my succubus."

With a lusty squeal and a wriggle, Heddiza stretched languidly in the heat as she stepped forth from the nether.

"Hmm, master," she purred, swirling a clawed finger on his chest flirtatiously, "Have you come to your senses? The weather here is _much_ nicer."

"No, Hedizza. We're here to rescue Makenzie," he explained, irritably batting her hand away. She pouted at him. The others might not notice it, but_ he_ could see the malice in her large, dark eyes.

"Oh! She isn't dead, then, like you thought?" she said, playing at being pleased, "Perhaps you _aren't_ a total failure, master! How wonderful!"

"Mind your tongue," he growled at the buxom creature.

"I always do," Hedizza purred, licking her lips.

"I have a task for you," he continued, "Of the utmost importance."

"Need your bed made?"

Ivan grabbed her arm roughly and gave her a warning glare, his clawlike fingers digging into her soft, supple flesh. She squealed and gasped at him, and though he knew she actually _enjoyed_ the treatment, he knew that _she _was aware that she would regret it if she continued to be so grossly disobedient.

"What would you ask of me, master?" she said demurely, leaning forward to nuzzle him. Ivan jerked his head away and released her arm.

"There's a dreadlord in the central corridor here," Ivan explained, "I need you to get him out of the room."

"That sounds _dangerous_, master," Hedizza frowned, her tail curling behind her, wings fluttering, "Some nathrezim don't_ like_ sayad."

"We'll be right behind you," Ivan said, making Murdok and Shalar'zahn say '_What!?_' in concert, "We'll need to sneak past as soon as you get him out of the room."

"What if he's not interested?" the succubus pouted, folding her arms underneath her ample chest. She not-so-subtley boosted them up, enhancing her cleavage. Ivan only stared a_ little_.

"Slap him and run, then," the warlock pressed, "I don't care what you do, Hedizza, so long as you get him away from that chamber."

Hedizza exhaled a put upon sigh and nodded. It wasn't as though she could refuse him, of course, but if she was compliant, it made things much easier.

As a collective, they moved into the hallway, very, very tense. It was a bit on the strange side that no one had come to inspect the portal. Demons were paranoid creatures, but by that same token, they were a tad obsessive. Perhaps they were too wrapped up their own schemes at the moment.

Ivan cringed at every errant _clip-clop _of Hedizza's hooves, the sound seeming to echo madly off of the naked walls.

"The corridor to the left is what we need, so don't take him that way," the warlock whispered to her. She didn't respond vocally, only nodding, and the four of them paused a ways down the hall.

The warlock gave her behind a swat, "Good luck."

Hedizza stuck out her tongue at him and sashayed the rest of the way down the hallway, primping her hair.

Slowly, agonizingly, they crept forward, both so they could listen in and be as close to their destination as possible.

"Ohh, my Lord," Hedizza purred in eredun. Ivan waved to the trolls, and they watched him intently for a signal.

"What are you doing here? This is a restricted area, sayad," Lord Fazrimet growled. Ivan cringed. Uh oh. Of _course_ this would be a restricted area. There was a portal to Northrend in it, and some horrible laboratory.

"_You_ know why," she said, and Ivan could picture the wicked smile that curled her full lips, one fang sneaking out of her mouth.

Ivan was certain his black heart would give out any moment as he waited for Fazrimet to take the bait. A dreadlord as powerful as Fazrimet seemed to be probably wouldn't fall for what was probably one of the oldest tricks in the book. Hedizza had never been that great at being sneaky.

"If this is an apology from Lord Hel'nurath because my steed was stolen-"

He held his breath – they _were_ on Xoroth. _Shit_.

"He told me to do _whatever_ you wanted," Hedizza dared to interrupt, hooves clicking delicately over the stone.

"Did he? Well," Fazrimet said with a dark chuckle, "If you perform adequately,_ perhaps_ I'll consider forgiving him. I honestly don't understand how his security can be so lax."

"Perhaps I'm too distracting," Hedizza purred.

The nathrezim seemed to appreciate that, and Ivan could scarcely believe their luck as they heard heavier hooves echoing in the large chamber. It was working. The plan was _working!_

"We'll see," the dreadlord replied, a smirk in his voice. Ivan and the trolls waited in agony until they could no longer hear them, and after some prodding from himself and Shalar'zahn, Murdok peeked around the corner. He gave them a thumbs up – the coast was clear!

Moving as one group, the three of them hurried out into the main chamber and towards their destination. There was only one problem. They'd thrown one dreadlord off the case, but there was an entire corridor filled with gan'arg to deal with. The room Makenzie was strapped down in was at the very end of the hallway.

"_Fuck_," Ivan announced, flattening against the wall again and looking at the trolls. Did they have ideas? Because he was stuck.

"What we gonna do!?" Shalar'zahn seethed.

"Okay, okay," Ivan said quickly, his mind whirring, "Don't panic. We can figure this out."

"You see where dat otha' dreadlord went, mon?" Murdok pressed. Ivan waved at him impatiently to shut up. He was _thinking_, damn it. The dreadlord, he assumed, had left or something else that wouldn't totally screw them over.

"Murdok, Shalar'zahn, go back to the portal," he said quickly, "Keep guard. I don't care how many demons you have to knock out and stash in a closet, just keep things quiet."

Shalar'zahn scowled.

"Why we gonna do dat?" she asked.

"I don't have time to explain!" Ivan said impatiently. Honestly, it was like they didn't _trust_ him sometimes.

Murdok and Shalar'zahn shared a look. The male troll shrugged and stepped back, and Shalar'zahn followed. She hesitated and gave Ivan a slight shove as he flipped up his intricately hemmed hood.

"Yah be careful," she said, not without some grudging affection, "Yah brudda nevah fahgive us if-"

"Go away before someone smells you," Ivan said, straightening his robes and brushing them off. He smiled under his hood as the two trolls hurried off muttering angrily to each other.

What stole his smile, however, was the complete insanity he was contemplating. He was a powerful warlock in his own right. He had quite a few demons bent to his will, and so settled in the heart of a place practically throbbing with nether, he had every confidence in his abilities. Gan'arg were pathetic cretins, and mo'arg... well, hopefully they were all busy experimenting, because they would completely ruin his plans if they were in the hall.

Taking a deep breath, he strode boldly into the long hall. He walked with great purpose, purposefully drawing some of the nether too him as though he were ready to unleash some terrible spell, giving him an intimidating aura.

None of the demons noticed him at first. The further down the hall he got, the more glances he received. A few of them stopped, and they started to exchange hissing whispers with each other.

Eventually, one of the bolder ones scurried up behind him as he reached the door to where Makenzie was being held.

"Hey!" it squeaked, its beady eyes blinking rapidly, "Are you sure you have the right clearance? Non-demons aren't allowed on this level!"

"Oh,_ please_," Ivan sneered, letting his disdain drip from every word, "Are you telling me you still haven't gotten the _message?_"

"W-what message, master warlock?" the gan'arg said, his eyes narrowing to slits. He glanced back at his fellows, but they seemed to wash their hands of what he was doing, going back to their duties.

"We must move the test subject to someplace more secure," he said, putting one hand on the door.

"Nobody told me that. That sounds important," the gan'arg scowled, "You'd better come with me to see Lord Fazrimet, first, so-"

"Do you _really_ think he wants to be bothered with your pathetic sniveling?" Ivan demanded. The gan'arg faltered, but it was clear he'd rather err on the side of caution. Ivan waited a moment, and then gasped dramatically, putting one hand up in defense.

"You haven't gone _near _the subject, have you?" the warlock ask, letting a twinge of fear creep into his voice. It was real enough. He was on Xoroth trying to kidnap his girlfriend back. It was a little nervy.

"Well, I... of course, I've been assisting," the gan'arg said, fidgeting his fingers together, "Why, what does it matter?"

"Do you feel slightly warm?" Ivan asked urgently, "A slightly quickened pulse? A greenish tinge to your skin?"

Though he was putting on quite a performance, listing things that basically any gan'arg might notice about himself was a stretch. They were paranoid creatures, though, devious as they were, and the way the dreadlord's had been talking, something very important had been done to Makenzie.

"I... I... well," it stammered, growing alarm on its face, "Yes, but... but what does that mean, exactly!? I was _assured_ it wouldn't be contagious-!"

"By the Deceiver's horns, I think you've caught it! Stay away from me! I don't want to be _infected!_" he spoke loudly.

The word 'infected' rang out in the hallway, and things ground to something of a halt.

"Who's infected?" a voice peeped.

"It's contagious already!?"

"I thought we were immune-"

"It's mutated!"

Bedlam exploded as the gan'arg started to flee the laboratory en masse, and the one that had waylaid Ivan was feeling his own pulse in a panic.

"What should I do!?" he shrieked.

"You'd better go tell Lord Fazrimet right away!" he exclaimed, "I'll contain the test subject at my own peril!"

The gan'arg ran off, sending more shrieks cascading through the mob. Ivan slipped inside just as he heard a mo'arg bellow angrily. Things were going almost too well, but he wasn't going to question it. He didn't know why he was doubting himself – his plans_ always_ worked.

Hurrying through the main lab, Ivan burst into Makenzie's holding area, startling her awake.

"I haven't seen you before," she said glumly, returning her gaze to the ceiling.

"I think you have," Ivan grinned, flipping his hood back. Makenzie gasped dramatically and let out a shriek of glee.

"Ivan!! You came to _rescue me!_"

"_Shhhhh!_" he hissed, cringing at her jubilant exclamations. Considering she'd been shrieking in agony before, she seemed just fine right now. He'd take it.

"Sorry," she said, biting her lower lip.

"Lovely as it is to see you strapped down," Ivan said, hurrying to her side, "I think we should get out of here before someone realizes what's going on."

As soon as she was free she pounced on him, kissing him so ferociously that he stumbled back into a tray, upsetting its contents and falling back against the wall. She ran her hands over his bald head and trailed them over his back, bunching up the thick fabric needily.

"You're so fucking _romantic_, Ivan," she gasped.

"Anything for you," he said stupidly, "Thank the Dark Lady you're all right. I was so _worried_-"

"You wanna do it on the table?" she asked him dreamily.

Ivan blinked at her and shifted uncomfortably. Of course, his immediate answer was '_YES_' but... this wasn't really a good time. And wasn't she... _traumatized_ or something? From being tortured by demons for the gods knew how many days?

"I love you," he blurted at her in answer to her question. It was her turn to blink, obviously shocked, but her gaping mouth quickly turned into a warm grin. She grabbed his wrists and started to drag him back to the operating table.

"Love you too, sweetie pie," she giggled. Ivan shuffled forward a few steps before stopping.

"I... Makenzie, we need to go," he said, "Are you all right to run?"

"You can carry me if you want," she said, pouting a little, "Sure we don't have time?"

"Pretty sure," he said, snatching her off her feet and hurrying out of the room. She laughed wildly and nibbled at his ear. Ivan would normally be very turned on, but he was a little confused. Was this _really_ a good time to be horny?

Why was _he_ of all people even asking that question?

Ivan kicked the door open (_ow, fuck, heavy door_) and limped a bit out into the hallway. The chaos from before seemed to have been cleared, the gan'arg and mo'arg having efficiently evacuated themselves from the 'hot zone'.

He half-hopped along the hallway (_had to kick in the door didn't you, you moron_), focused intently on the main chamber. If he could make it there, and then into the portal corridor, he was home free.

"Did you rescue me all by yourself, Ivan?" Makenzie wondered conversationally. He glanced at her and let out a sigh of relief. She was completely perfect. Maybe she was a little on the dumb side, but that was okay. He had enough brains for both of them.

"I had a little help," he admitted, "I'm so glad you're all right."

The adoring look in her eyes flickered to something darker a moment and she nodded, nuzzling his neck, "I am now."

"What is the meaning of this!?" a very, very angry voice bellowed.

Horuk, wings spread, talons twitching, eyes huge stood behind them, having entered from where he assumed Lord Fazrimet and Hadizza had gone. He looked _cranky_. Ivan was, after all, making off with his pet project.

"Okay, love, I think it's time to move!" Ivan said, setting Makenzie on her feet and breaking into a run.

He glanced at her and felt a swell of pride as her face twisted into an ugly scowl, presenting the dreadlord with her middle finger as Ivan dragged her down the hall.

"Where're we going?" she wondered. He noticed with some alarm that she was having trouble keeping up with him, even hobbled from bashing his foot into an iron door. Uh oh. The clatter of hooves as the dreadlord recovered from his shock wasn't a good sign.

"We're getting _out_ of here," Ivan said, "Promise. And I'll _never_ send you off alone to do something_ my_ lazy ass should do again, all right?"

"Okay, baby," Makenzie said, letting out a yip of alarm as the dreadlord slid into the hallway, nearly overcome by his own momentum. He launched after them with an inarticulate snarl, sending chips of stone flying with the force of his pursuit.

Ivan was starting to understand why these corridors were so long – it was much easier to catch escaping Forsaken who didn't think their heroic plans all the way through. This was why he much preferred being a mercenary to a hero.

"Keep going!" he exclaimed, stumbling to a halt and turning to face the dreadlord. It was a _lot _bigger up close.

It took Makenzie a moment to realize he'd stopped running along side her and he could hear her skitter to a stop.

"Ivan!" she cried out.

"You little wretch!" the nathrezim snarled hatefully, "I'll rip you to pieces! You'll – arrgh!"

The demon stumbled and nearly fell, crashing heavily into a wall. On top of its head was Murdok, stretching his winter coat over its eyes.

"Go!" Murdok yelled, "I got yah back!"

"Ohh!" Makenzie exclaimed, still looking back at Murdok as Ivan grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hallway. The dreadlord clawed at Murdok furiously as they turned the corner.

Shalar'zahn was leaning out of the doorway, eyes wide, and even though she spared a grin for Makenzie, she gestured to the both of them urgently.

"C'mon, c'mon!" she urged, ducking into the portal room with them.

"Hi, 'Zahn," Makenzie said, "Murdok stopped the dreadlord for us."

"He _what!?_" Shalar'zahn exclaimed, looking horried, "He jes' said... dat stupid- _aurgh!_"

Ivan grabbed both women by the arm and dragged them through the portal with him. Shalar'zhan slugged him in the shoulder, which hurt _quite_ a lot, but they were through and he let her go.

"Whadda bout Murdok!?"

"We have to destroy the portal," Ivan said urgently, scrambling around for a large rock. Yes. That would do.

"No yah don't! Not when he still be in 'dere!"

"That dreadlord is going to rip us all to shreds-"

"Not me!" Makenzie said.

"Rip you and _I _too shreds," Ivan corrected, flicking a look at Makenzie, who rubbed her arms furtively in Northrend's cold air, "If we don't destroy this portal."

"Fah'get it," Shalar'zahn snarled, turning towards the portal, "I ain't leavin' hi-"

The trolless grunted as Murdok sprinted through the portal at full tilt, bowling her over. Both trolls tumbled over down the beach in a tangle of long limbs and colorful curses. Ivan worked double time, frantically scribing unstable runes into the rock.

"We should go!" Murdok said urgently, "It be right b'hind me!"

"Get down!" Ivan shouted. He hurled the rock into where he knew the portal was, grabbed Makenzie and flung them both to the ground. Nothing happened for a moment, and then an explosion billowed out, the eldritch flames licking at their feet. Strangely, the explosion seemed to slow, and then actually retract, sucked into the gaping rift in the nether that Ivan's hasty rune had triggered as it collapsed onto itself.

It was quiet a moment. Nobody dared to move, or twitch, or even speak.

And then, "_HA!_"

Murdok thrust both fists into the air triumphantly. Shalar'zahn cackled even as she gave the male troll a shove.

"You're squishing me!" Makenzie squeaked from underneath the warlock. Ivan sat up and helped her a sit up as welll brushing sand off of her attentively.

"Sorry," he said, wondering if it was possible for anyone to be as happy as he was. Here she was, in front of him, a little bedraggled but really no worse for wear otherwise.

"It's okay," she said, running her hands through her rather limp hair, "It's really cold out here, huh?"

Ivan scrambled to his feet and grabbed his coat a few yards away, quickly returning to settle it around her shoulders. He was vaguely aware of Murdok and Shalar'zahn laughing and carrying on in the background, growing closer, but he was far too fixated on the fact that he'd just very heroically rescued Makenzie from certain doom.

"Better?" he asked her, smoothing some of her matted hair away from his face. He took extra care not to scratch.

Makenzie leaned forward and rubbed her nose against his and nodded, "Lots. Where's Igor?"

The warlock's expression darkened slightly, but the trolls descended on them, and Shalar'zahn attacked Makenzie with a big hug.

"You silleh t'ing!" the troll said, "Don' yah go an' get kidnapped by de Legion again, eh?"

"I tried not too," Makenzie assured her, hugging her back, her question momentarily forgotten.

"Sure he be a'ight, mon," Murdok said quietly, patting Ivan on the shoulder, "Dunno what ya plan was, by de way, but it worked a charm."

"Did you really have any doubt?" Ivan said with faux bravado. His twin was very conspicuously absent in this moment, wasn't he? Daring as his rescue had just been, he doubted it would be quite so glorious in Scourge territory.

"A bit," the rogue smirked, giving Ivan a chummy shove. He stood and whistled sharply for his raptor.

It took some time for the dinosaur to return, and Ivan summoned his dreadsteed. It responded rather positively to him for once, perhaps sensing the remnants of Xoroth clinging to his skin.

Ivan helped Makenzie up onto it first and then settled in behind her, putting his arms around her and pulling her close.

"I'm so glad you're safe," he gushed, unable to help repeating himself, "I thought... I was _so_ afraid you'd been killed Makenzie. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'd be lonely," she said matter-of-factly, tilting her head back so she was looking at him upside-down.

"I would," he said seriously, adding without thinking, "I think we should get married when we get back."

"Okay!" she exclaimed, sitting up properly and wriggling in the saddle. The dreadsteed snorted – oh not _this_ woman again.

Ivan covered his mouth in shock, eyes wide. He'd... he hadn't meant to say that out loud. Well, he sort of had, but he... and she'd agreed, so...

"Shalar'zahn!" Makenzie called out to the trolls bobbing along beside them. The shadow hunter turned her head and raised her eyebrows, "We're getting married!"

Shalar'zahn's eyes fluttered as she reacted to the statement, and then threw her head back and laughed long and loud.

"Shut up, 'Zahn!" Ivan huffed at her, feeling a sort of burning embarrassment at her reaction. Murdok joined in, shaking his head, and he slouched a bit in the saddle. He was ruined, now. Nobody would take him seriously.

Makenzie giggled and turned her head sideways to kiss his chin, melting his dour expression into something a bit more dopey.

"If I would have known it took getting kidnapped by demons for you to stop being such a dummy," she purred at him, "I woulda gotten kidnapped a lot sooner."

* * *

_**A/N:** I felt really bad about the last chapter so I stayed up to an ungodly hour to bring you this one. I hope it is a bit less soul crushing! One more chapter to go, holy crap, I might actually finish this one. _


	13. Chapter 13

Edgar didn't know how to feel. There were so many emotions warring inside of him that it left him exhausted. Outwardly, it projected as a sort of vacant despondency, a distinct _lack _of feeling. Nothing could be farther from the truth. He wished he couldn't feel anything. Some Forsaken claimed or acted as though they couldn't feel anymore, but he didn't believe it. At their very core, weren't they all still just human?

It was nightfall, when they returned to Vengeance Landing. The guards hadn't been terribly happy to see Yvette, but Igor explained things, smoothed it over. Their friends were gathered at the inn, it seemed, waiting for them. Yvette had excused herself to store Anne's body (_she was dead, Anne was dead_) while himself and Igor headed for the inn. Part of him felt like they ought to wait for Yvette, or that he should've gone with her, but he couldn't bear the latter and the former seemed a bit silly. Igor wanted to see his brother very badly, and Tegan could certainly do with some time indoors.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder as they paused outside the inn a moment.

"I'm all right," Edgar assured him, his voice taut. He had tried, for a portion of their trek back to the coast, to hate Igor. The soft spoken priest, however, was not an easy person to dislike. If he was wholly honest with himself, it was more because it just wasn't in him to hate someone. Even if it was, he didn't have the energy right now to think about anything but...

His jaw clenched and struggled not to break down. Not again. Becoming a useless wreck wasn't helping anyone.

Igor lingered a moment more before pushing the door open. They both hurried inside in spite of themselves, the roaring fire inside the inn driving away the bitter cold almost instantly.

"Igor!?"

People Edgar didn't recognize cheered raggedly and Tegan squawked, alarmed by the sudden uproar. He shushed her gently, watching as Igor was reunited with his friends. Igor had told him about his friends and brother on the way back, the priest being the only one to attempt strained conversation.

Of course, the one who was Igor's mirror image was Ivan, his resplendent clothing and boisterous manner completely opposite his modest, shy twin. Ivan was grinning from ear to ear and picked Igor up by the waist in a crushing hug. Another woman rushed over as well, her wild burst of nearly-red hair identifying her as Makenzie, the girl who'd been captured by a dreadlord. With Igor prone, over his brother's shoulder, Makenzie messily kissed the top of Igor's bald head. All three of them were laughing, joyous, their family reunited.

A drink was pressed into Igor's hand by the male troll (Murdok, would be his name) and the female (Shalar'zahn) hugged him tightly before making him sit down by the fire.

Ivan turned on Edgar next, offering him his hand. Edgar noted the warlock's hands – more like claws than fingers – but he shook it anyway, accepting a chummy slap on the back.

"You're the famous Edgar!" Ivan said, pulling him over to their group. Igor had made his brother out to be something of a well-meaning prick. So far, he only saw the well-meaning part, though.

Igor looked at Edgar awkwardly, apologetically, but Edgar shook his head at him minutely. It was coming. He was ready for it.

A drink was passed to him, and Shalar'zahn gasped in alarm.

"Whatchoo got dat' fo'!?" she exclaimed, peering at Tegan with an awed expression.

"Just a little something we picked up," Edgar said. His voice had obvious strain in it, but no one aside from Igor seemed to notice.

"Yah got some story tellin' tah do, I t'ink, mon," the trolless grinned at him, glancing at Murdok. He raised his brows at her and shook his head a little.

"Where's Anne? Stabling her horse?" Ivan asked before taking a drink from his mug. He snagged Makenzie by the waist and sat her on his knee.

"She's dead."

The good cheer seemed to shrivel up, let out a keening wail, and keel over. Edgar felt slightly guilty for it, but he _had _asked.

"...oh," Ivan grimaced, his brow creasing together, "I'm... I'm sorry, Edgar. Anne was... without her..."

"It's all right," Edgar said softly. He could feel the curiosity in their eyes, scratching at him despite the dire news, and he cleared his throat. It made him feel claustrophobic, and he didn't much feel like discussing the details.

He would thank Igor later for making discreet '_No, don't_' gesture's to his friends.

"Sorreh, Edgah," Shalar'zahn offered instead. The male troll nodded, while Makenzie frowned, perhaps feeling like she didn't have enough invested in the situation to speak. He didn't mind.

It seemed as though his announcement had completely leeched all the life out of the room and he sighed. Tegan seemed oblivious to all of it, wriggling away, and he was relieved when the inn door banged open again, Yvette preceded by another blast of cold air from the outside.

Her remaining eye seemed to scour the room and the silence seemed to get just a bit thicker. Instead of approaching their little gathering, however, Yvette took up residence in the corner, leaning her runeblade up against the wall. Edgar thought, with some amusement, that she was probably trying to avoid ruining the moment. Too late, though. He'd done the honors.

"Is that the Death Knight?" Makenzie asked, not being terribly quiet about it.

"Yvette Brack," Edgar clarified, nodding, "That's her. If it weren't for Yvette I don't think I would be here right now."

"How come she's sitting by herself?" the female warlock wondered, arching her back a little as Ivan stroked it.

"She's not a people person," Edgar said as he managed a razor thin smile. Her entrance had broke the silence, at least. The death of someone they barely knew had left them all a bit awkward, unsure of how much they ought to mourn.

"So how you get a troll baby out in Nort'rend, mon?" Murdok wondered. The canny troll seemed to sense that Edgar didn't want to linger on his wifes death just now.

"We found her," the soldier said. He found that telling Tegan's story came out of him easily, giving him a small inner warmth that he hadn't felt for a few days. The group seemed entertained by it, at least, and when he'd finished he obligingly passed the infant over to Shalar'zahn. Normally Tegan was a bit drowsy by now, but all the excitement was keeping her wide eyed. He'd kept the part where the Scorge and Legion had both been after her out for the moment. One thing at a time.

"Lookit you," Shalar'zahn said gently, smiling down at the child, "Lil' t'ing. Yah lucky! Yah!"

She extracted Tegan from her swaddling and nuzzled her face close to the infant, making silly noises. Tegan responded ecstatically, grabbing at the troll's face and tusks, and Shalar'zahn laughed.

Edgar, who had been sure his heart couldn't hurt anymore, felt another harsh twinge. Of course she was happier – it was warm, and there was a warm person touching her. It was more natural for her, wasn't it? To be handled by her own kind? Not some half-dead soldier who had nothing to offer her but a dreary underground city populated by the living dead.

He glanced at the male troll, wondering what his pained expression was for. Edgar didn't get much time to think on it as Murdok went to get another round.

"I can't believe you carried that baby around the whole time," Makenzie said. She was leaning forward tentatively, nose wrinkled, expression one of morbid fascination.

"You tellin' me yah'd leave a sweet lil' baby in de woods?" Shalar'zahn laughed.

"Well, I'd get someone else to carry it," the female warlock said, frowning.

"Probably me," Igor commented.

"Well, you _are _a priest," Makenzie said. The priest laughed at that and shook his head, "What, do you think Ivan should carry it instead?"

She gave her lover a sly poke.

"I'd just eat it," Ivan said easily.

"I t'ink I prolly believe yah, mon," Murdok said as he returned, setting down the next round, "Don' t'ink yah should eat dis' one, though. She be pretteh tough."

"She's a trooper," Edgar smiled. They were a rather weird bunch, but he found himself enjoying their banter. He looked over his shoulder at Yvette, alone, drinkless, staring at him. She nodded at him, once and he nodded back. Hesitating a moment, he gestured her over.

Yvette shook her head no.

"I prefer my meat tender," Ivan said glibly, making Makenzie giggled. Igor rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Yah be sick," Shalar'zahn informed the warlock, passing her back to Edgar. Edgar was surprised she'd handed her over so quickly and smiled down at her. She responded with a gummy smile and tried to eat her thick fingers.

"Lookit'... eh... what be 'dat?" the troll said abruptly, her tone switching from warm to tense. Edgar blinked at her and followed her gaze. The mark.

"Oh," he said, frowning a little, "I don't know. I guess it's a birthmark. It looks more like a tattoo to me."

"How long she had it?" Shalar'zahn asked. Though she'd quickly regained her composure, Edgar had seen the fear plain on her face. Tomorrow, though. He didn't care if he was being selfish – even now, he would prefer to be alone in a room. He doubted he would sleep well, but he could take some small comforts like a bed and a roof in stride.

"Since we found her," Edgar said, "Have you seen it before?"

"No," the troll said. Edgar didn't believe her, but didn't press. Tomorrow.

"I'm exhausted," he announced, passing Tegan back to the troll so she could inspect the mark she'd never seen before more closely, "I don't mean to impose... do you mind looking after her? You can drop her off before you go to sleep."

"It be a'right," Shalar'zahn assured him. He took notice of Murdok's grimace, but decided to let them sort it out.

"Goodnight, everyone," Edgar smiled, standing and nodding, "It was good to meet you."

He exchanged words with the innkeeper, whom expressed quiet sympathies and gave him a room for free. Edgar thanked her and shuffled off to be alone, glancing at Yvette on his way to the stairs. Yvette only watched him, not speaking, and he wondered what it was she was thinking about.

"Poor bastard," Ivan said, looking back to the others and exhaling. Makenzie laid her head on Ivan's shoulder, toying with the collar of his robe while Shalar'zahn fussed over Tegan.

"How'd it happen, Igor?" Murdok asked.

Yvette stood when Igor began to describe the events – she'd heard enough. She noticed that their conversation hitched when she moved, taking up her runeblade and heading out into the night.

It was quieter outside. None of the on duty guards much felt like conversation, and she wouldn't have talked to them anyway. The zeppelin loomed over the small base and she looked up at it.

The zeppelin master, hearing their group had finished their little fling in Northrend, had been eager to heave ho. Though he'd been reluctant to leave without a security detail, a group of people who had managed to avoid being killed by the Scourge seemed just as good. He'd been less than thrilled to store Anne's corpse, but Yvette knew he wouldn't have the belly to refuse her request. Anne had payed him an obscene amount of money for passage – the least he could do was transport her body back home.

Yvette walked down to the beach instead, glancing at the stacked lumber intended for a dock, and looked out over the sea.

She had a choice to make. Either she could lend her support to the forces at Vengeance Landing, or she could return to the Undercity. All her oath making and promises were rather moot now, weren't they? Antoine was dead, _truly_ dead, and after killing him she had to question her own ideas of vengeance.

There was the somewhat unresolved matter of Tegan, also, and her tenuous connection to the Old Gods. The female troll knew _something_, and she was certain Edgar had noticed, but he hadn't said anything. He hadn't told them the specific reason they were being chased, either.

Edgar.

Part of him was destroyed utterly, completely. She had seen it die, whatever it was. It was impossible to say what it was, exactly. His ability to love, perhaps. The desire to keep the company of others.

But it hadn't broken him. Yvette had found him to be pathetic at the start, but the longer they were in each other's company, the more she began to appreciate his inner strength. His ability to put so much faith in an idea or a person.

She had been like that, once upon a time.

What would there be for Edgar? Would he return to his job, his home in the Undercity, continue as if nothing had happened? Would he try to raise Tegan on his own? As much peace as the troll child brought him, she knew he wouldn't do anything selfish. By all rights he had every reason to do selfish things, but he wouldn't.

That was just Edgar.

She wouldn't let him bury Anne alone. In a round about way, the whole thing was her fault. For whatever reason the Scourge was originally after her – likely fueled by Antoine's own revenge – he had suffered as a result. It was the least she could do, be there for him while he laid her ashes to rest. He shouldn't have to suffer an inquiry alone, either. How would it look if he turned without her?

Highlord Mograine would want to hear of the events that had transpired as well. He needed too. Though she didn't savor a trip to Ebon Hold, she would need to have entirely new set of armor crafted. The scraps that remained of her current set were in irreparable shambles. What Antoine hadn't savaged, the felguard's had finished off subsequently.

It was settled, then. Back to the Undercity. Once she'd attended to some things, she would take time to seriously consider what it was she was going to do. The Lich King did need to pay for everything he'd ruined, but Anne's death had reminded her that without the Burning Legion, the Lich King wouldn't even exist. A shift in priority and a change in venue would be in order. One thing she was sure of: _someone _would be answerable to her for all the suffering inflicted on herself.

And Edgar. She owed him a debt that she didn't think she would ever truly be able to repay.

Resolved, Yvette turned away from the ocean and took up post on the outskirts of the base camp. If any of the night watchmen disapproved, they kept it to themselves.

* * *

After Igor related his own ordeal with Anne, Edgar and Yvette, he took a turn listening, unable to help but laugh at the conclusion of their great escape. Small world, that the same dreadlord had been terrorizing both of them. Hopefully the demon had been blown up with the portal, but somehow, Igor doubted it. They wouldn't be that lucky.

"Congratulations," he said with a warm smile, watching Makenzie nuzzle his brother happily, "It's about time."

"We were thinking of having the ceremony in Brill, and the honeymoon in Booty Bay," Makenzie said dreamily, running a hand through her voluminous hair. Ivan quirked a brow at her and she gave him a sheepish, doe eyed looked, "Well, that's what _I _was thinking."

"What_ever_ you want," Ivan said, kissing her cheek. It was a rather chaste gesture for him and Igor hid a smile by looking down. He wondered if his brother knew just how sappy Makenzie made him look. Usually it was more lechery than sap, but he'd apparently turned over a new leaf.

"So you feel _completely_ fine?" Igor pressed, the fact nagging at him, "_No_ side effects?"

Makenzie shrugged flippantly, "Nope. Well, it hurt a lot when they were doing stuff, but I'm fine now."

"Mm," the priest said. He wasn't convinced, but he had no way to argue otherwise. It was just a feeling, really, and he wouldn't ruin the mood by making the flighty warlock recount what experiments were performed on her. Not so soon after the fact, anyway.

Shalar'zahn was still absorbed in the baby ice troll, the latter having finally given in to sleep in her arms. She was smiling down at the little thing, stroking the light colored fuzz on its head while Murdok looked on, somewhere between endeared and pained. Igor had to wonder if Edgar intended to keep the child to himself – he was obviously very attached to it. From what he could see, so was Shalar'zahn.

Aside from Anne's tragic death, he had an overall positive feeling.

"Igor," Makenzie addressed, tilting her head at him. He raised his brows at her attentively, looking up from his thoughts, "You should move back in with us. We miss you."

Ivan looked a bit awkward but didn't speak up, rubbing the back of his head instead.

"I... well you know I don't want to impose on you two," Igor said. He felt awkward, too. Living alone in a cottage outside of Brill wasn't his ideal situation, true, but he also didn't want to cramp the prospective newlywed's style.

"Oh you_ never _impose," Makenzie assured him, "The place is always _so_ much cleaner when you're living with us!"

Igor laughed at that and smirked, leaning back in his chair. All things considered, he liked the idea. They'd made amends, _real_ amends for once, and he'd probably need their entire honeymoon to get their home back into some semblance of order.

"If it's all right with Ivan, it's all right with me," he told her, shifting his eyes to his brother. Ivan offered his twin a lopsided smile and gave Makenzie's side a playful pinch. She squealed and swatted at him.

"What would I do without you to herd me around, hmm?" he asked her sardonically. Makenzie shrugged, looking at him expectantly, and he nodded.

"It'll be nice to have a clean house again," he said, grinning broadly at his fastidious twin.

"Be easieah tah visit yah t'ree now," Murdok commented dryly, "Won' have tah make two trips."

"We always have to visit _you_ anyway, Murdok," Ivan said snidely, "You have your head too far up Thrall's ass to visit anyone else."

"Watch yah mout'," the troll warned him. Ivan put up his hands in defense and Shalar'zahn rolled her eyes.

"Don' talk so loud," she suggested, "She be sleepin'."

"Tegan is an interesting name for a troll," Igor smiled, leaning forward a little to peer at the slumbering baby. She seemed quite at home, nestled in the shadow hunter's arms. If her skin wasn't quite so light, she might as well have belonged to Shalar'zahn. He wouldn't say so, though. It was going to be an interesting zeppelin ride home.

Shalar'zahn snorted and shook her head, "Well, she be an interestin' lil' girl. So I s'pose it fits dat way."

"Goin' tah bed," Murdok said. He leaned down a moment, hesitant, and brushed his cheek against hers affectionately. Shalar'zahn turned and kissed it, the two of them sharing a private smile before he headed off to his room.

Shalar'zahn sighed once he was gone, adjusting her grip on the baby, and leaned back in her chair some.

"I'm glad you two made up," Makenzie smiled.

"Not _all_ de way 'dere yet," the troll said, her own smile closer to a smirk, "But we gettin' dere."

"Do you think that Edgar guy will give you the baby?" the clueless warlock mused. Igor winced, unknowingly in concert with his brother, and looked at Shalar'zahn.

"Dunno," she said with a light shrug, surprising the twins with her calm reaction, "He seem tah like her, an' he jes' lost his wife. Seems cruel tah take away de baby he jes' spent so long protectin'."

"I don't know why he'd _want_ a baby," Makenzie said, her nose wrinkling again.

"Wha? Don' you t'ink she be cute?" Shalar'zahn asked, raising her eyebrows.

Igor watched as Makenzie leaned forward warily, as though the baby might explode at any moment, pondering Shalar'zahn's question.

"I guess," she relented, "I wouldn't want to_ keep_ her, though."

"I don' t'ink I'd wantya to either," the troll said with a ferocious smile, looking directly at Ivan, "Prolly use 'er t'summon a demon in a pinch."

"Babies are good for that sort of thing," Ivan said. Igor found it mildly disturbing how readily his brother went along with those sorts of comments. He was joking, though. Probably. Light, he _hoped_ so.

Makenzie laughed at his joke, anyway, and though it seemed completely incongruous, the two of them kissed. Igor could only shake his head. He'd just agreed to move back in with these two. She whispered something in Ivan's ear afterwards and he chuckled deep in his chest, swatting her behind hard enough to elicit a _yip_.

"Bedtime for me, I think," Igor said, standing up.

"Yah," Shalar'zahn said, standing up as well. Her expression was a bewildered one, and he couldn't help but concur. Their sudden desire to make an exit made Makenzie and Ivan look up from mooning over each other, but only Ivan seemed to realize why.

"Goodnight!" Makenzie said brightly, covering a yawn with the back of her hand, catlike as the stretched, "Maybe _we_ should go to bed, too."

"Maybe," Ivan said. He stood, throwing the waifish Forsaken over his shoulder dramatically and leading the pack back to their rooms.

Igor lingered in the hall with Shalar'zahn as the two of them went into their room and shared a private laugh.

"Are you going to take the baby back to Edgar?" he wondered quietly, not in a terrible hurry to sleep despite the late hour. He watched a few emotions play across her face before she finally nodded.

"Yah," she said, "He prolly be waitin' up."

"I'm glad you all made it out all right, Shalar'zahn," Igor said warmly, reaching out to rest a hand on her upper arm.

"Glad you be okeh too, Igor," she said, leaning forward to smooch the top of his head, "Don' t'ink anyone was keen tah deal wit' Ivan if anyt'in' happened tah yah."

"Good to know I still have uses," he said, mildly embarrassed by the affection.

They parted ways, and it wasn't until Igor had settled into bed that he heard it – the tell tale creaking of a shoddy mattress being abused by two people. Nothing like discussing baby eating to get the blood going.

Igor smirked and settled in to sleep. He could thank his brothers promiscuity for his ability to sleep through nearly anything.

Content that all was finally right in the world, he pulled his pillow over his head and went to sleep.

* * *

The zeppelin ride back to the Eastern Kingdom served to illuminate several points for Murdok.

First, that the on board bathroom was so small that even two determined Forsaken found it to be a tight fit. It did _not_, however, deter them.

Second, that Yvette was unsettlingly and bizarrely relateable. He'd been dead set on completely avoiding her, but despite her off putting appearance and the fact that she seemed to radiate gloom, she wasn't _so_ bad. For a Death Knight, anyway.

Third, that he was moving out to Sen'jin, and furthermore, he'd be surrogate father to the baby ice troll Edgar had found. As a footnote to that development, Edgar would be visiting regularly, and when Tegan was old enough to eat solid food they'd begin researching her rather bizarre and mysterious origins in earnest.

Murdok didn't know if it was such a good idea to look into anything that had to do with the Old Gods, but what he'd heard made him grudgingly agree that _not _looking into it would potentially be disastrous. To whom, he didn't know.

He knew that Shalar'zahn had contacts all over Azeroth, and if one of them couldn't shed more light on the wriggly ice troll, no one could.

They'd been in the Eastern Kingdom's soon now, and it seemed as though they'd been traveling in the zeppelin forever. The trip up had been much faster, largely in part thanks to Shalar'zahn, but she had been too occupied with the baby to bother rushing things.

It was good to see her happy. He couldn't argue with taking the baby on – he concurred with Edgar that the Undercity wasn't the most prime location to raise a child, and furthermore, she'd benefit more from being raised by her own kind.

What worried him was the fact that there was something _off _about the baby. Shalar'zahn was already very attached to her, especially since Edgar had suggested she and Murdok take the child on as their own, and if for some reason _something _happened...

Worrying about it now was a bit moot, he supposed. There wasn't much in the way of Scourge or Legion to worry about in Durotar. Perhaps when they went on their little cross-continent knowledge seeking adventure they would run into trouble, but spending time in sleepy Sen'jin would be quite safe.

Murdok knew why he was uneasy overall, though. When things worked out, he couldn't quite take it for granted. There was always _something_.

They'd rescued Makenzie, but the demons had been doing some pretty nasty things to her. There didn't seem to be any lasting effects now, but what would crop up in the next few days? Weeks? A month, maybe?

While it was generous of Edgar to hand the child off, he couldn't help but wonder just how hard it had been for him. The baby had been one of his only comforts in a very dark time, and now he was going to return to his home completely alone. Murdok wasn't counting Yvette as company. Maybe she had a sense of humor, but so did most sentient beings. That didn't make them good company.

Igor and Ivan had finally dealt with the issue that had been tearing them so far apart, but it didn't change the fact that Igor was a mild-mannered pushover and his twin was a self-centered lout. With Makenzie back in the picture, there was some hope, but Murdok had to wonder how long it would last, especially with them all living under the same roof.

As for himself... he and Shalar'zahn had made up, to a degree. She was still withdrawn from him, not quite letting him all the way in. Maybe she never would again. Logically he could understand it, but he worried that it might eventually tear them apart again.

Murdok sighed quietly, looking down into Shalar'zahn's bright red dreadlocks. He allowed himself a fond smile and stroked her hair as she napped, noting that the baby had decided a nap was a good idea too.

The Forsaken, meanwhile, seemed to be absorbed in other things. Yvette was sitting at the far end of the passenger benches, looking at nothing, or counting the grain in the wood, or whatever it was she did when she stared off into space like she did. Edgar was sitting next to her, his own vacant expression fixed on the ceiling. If anything happened to compromise hull integrity, the two of them would be on it before anyone else. How he could sit so close to her was a mystery to the rogue.

Igor was spending his idle time talking quietly with his brother and future sister-in-law, the three of them occasionally laughing, swatting each other... well. At least things had returned to normal for them. As normal as three Forsaken could get.

Even when they returned to Eastern Kingdom's, he and Shalar'zahn had an extra trip to make, though Ivan kept insisting he 'knew a guy' who could open a portal back to Orgrimmar for a reasonable fee. Murdok wasn't betting on it. Anybody Ivan knew in any capacity generally hated his guts.

A yawn broke his face wide open and he stretched uncomfortably, taking care not to shift Shalar'zahn too much and wake her. He'd rather be napping, himself, but someone had to stay awake and make sure the dead people didn't collectively lose their minds.

The rogue was fairly sure he'd already missed that boat, but just in case, he'd keep watch.

* * *

Edgar reflected on the past month as he strode purposefully through the cemetery, picking his way through the stone markers.

At the start of it, he'd wound up on the roof of the world with a Death Knight. He'd found a baby troll who happened to be the key to some ominous, mysterious power. He had lost his wife at the hands of the Burning Legion. He had been through at least seven separate inquiries from the Horde governments, some multiple times. His Dark Lady had commended him for his service and offered him a position as liaison between Ebon Hold and the Undercity.

He had refused.

He'd attended the wedding of two warlocks only a few days ago. He'd seen Yvette in a dress, then.

Edgar intended to never let her live it down.

The soldier paused at his destination and crouched down, brushing off a few scraggly weeds that had grown since his last visit.

"Morning," he said quietly, smiling, "Sorry it's been a few days. I've been trying to keep busier."

His fingers trailed lightly over the cool stone, tracing the words engraved there. If it was unhealthy to frequently visit Anne's grave, Edgar didn't much care. It had only been a month, and it still seemed like only yesterday that she was was laughing at one of his bad jokes.

Edgar didn't joke much, anymore.

"Tegan's well," he said, "I'm going to ask for a transfer, maybe zeppelin security or something like that, so it's easier for me to visit her. I was thinking..."

He swallowed, looking away from the marker, as though it were peering at him somehow.

"I was thinking of selling our place," Edgar continued in a quieter voice, "And just getting something small in Orgrimmar. I hope you're not to disappointed in me, Anne, but it's just so... it's so _hard_ without you. Everything in that place..."

His throat closed off, refusing to let him finish the thought, and he leaned heavily on the marker, squeezing his eyes shut to regain his composure.

"I don't want to be a coward," he said softly, "You didn't marry a coward, Anne, and I don't intend to turn into one now."

Heavy boots crunching dry grass reached his ears and he sat up a little, absently wiping at his eyes even though there were no tears. Edgar didn't fight his residual urges for things.

Yvette paused when she knew she'd been spotted and nodded once at Edgar, acknowledging him.

"Where's your dress?" he called out, managing his first smile for the day. The Death Knight seemed to be more armor than Forsaken, the wicked black metal gleaming even in the dismal light of the Tirisfal morning.

"I burned it," Yvette assured him, approaching and coming to stand next to him, "But I am glad you were able to draw some amusement from it."

"I didn't even know you owned other clothes," Edgar said, getting to his feet.

"It was purchased specifically for the wedding," she said, crouching down to place a rose in front of Anne's marker. It was already withered and blackened, but Edgar still appreciated the gesture.

"I have to admit I was a little surprised you came," he said, shrugging his shoulders a little and letting his eyes drift back down to the grave. A mild gust of wind made off with some dried rose petals.

"You went," was her matter-of-fact reply. He smirked and looked at her sideways – her one-eyed, baleful glaring didn't make his skin crawl anymore. It wasn't that she'd ceased to be unsettling. Edgar just knew he had nothing to fear from her.

She still refused to cover her empty eye socket no matter how much it bothered people. Edgar admired her reasons for doing so. The missing eye was a sort of living monument to her brother.

Yvette didn't visit his marker anymore. It had long since grown over with weeds.

She didn't want to talk about it.

He didn't make her.

"Did you really burn it?" Edgar asked her, squinting at her a little, as though he might be able to discern the truth.

"No," Yvette admitted, "But I am seriously considering it. Perhaps if you mention it a few more times, it will help solidify my decision."

Edgar smiled and shook his head, exhaling a quiet sigh.

"I really miss her, Yvette," he said, voice faltering some. It was easier to be himself around Yvette. She _understood_. There were no awkward grimaces or tentative, unsure apologies and sympathies. Yvette just simply _knew_. It meant a great deal to him. It was, perhaps, the only reason he hadn't done something drastic.

Yvette only nodded, silent as his knees gave and he clutched Anne's headstone desperately. He wasn't sure how long he stayed that way, embarrassed but unable to feel anything but hopelessness crushing down around him. Why keep going like this for another day? Another week? Another month? Anne wasn't coming back. He was _alone_.

Frigid hands lifted him up to his feet and guided him out of the cemetery. He barely noticed where they were until the hushed murmurs of the Undercity surrounded them. Everyone gave Yvette a wide berth.

She walked him back to his home and finally released him. Her gloves kept her cold grip from burning, but he still absently rubbed where her hand had held him up.

"Thank you," he murmured, looking down at his feet, "Seems like it always ends that way, doesn't it?"

"That's why I go," Yvette said plainly.

"Why?" he frowned, looking up at her.

"To pick you up," she clarified.

Edgar felt a strange elation at her simple, dry statement, and had to swallow the urge to hug her for it. Yvette didn't much like hugs.

"You're a good friend, Yvette," he praised instead, smiling at her, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"See you tomorrow, Edgar," she said. With a crisp gesture of farewell, she turned on a heel and tromped away, and he watched her go until she'd gone from sight.

"See you tomorrow, Yvette," Edgar said quietly to no one, before pushing the door to his home open. He sat down in the main area and reached into his pocket, taking out the thin gold band that had once adorned Anne's finger. Turning it over a few times, he exhaled a weary but resolute sigh.

Moving out of the Undercity wouldn't solve anything. Not yet, anyway. He still had some healing to do, and besides, once Tegan was big enough, they'd be digging right into her mystery. Perhaps he ought to ask Yvette if she wanted to come.

With a private smirk, Edgar imagined she'd invite herself along if she heard about it. He set the ring on a small table and sighed. If he wasn't going to put in for transfer, then he ought to get to work.

Edgar strapped on his armor, making sure to tuck the wedding band away safely before heading out the door. He could slowly waste away, let his loneliness eat away at him until he was nothing but a hollow, dessicated shell that knew nothing but pain. Every day could be a struggle, an insurmountable agony with no end.

Whatever he decided to do, however he decided to do it, he could take comfort in the fact that someone would pick him up, take him home, and see him tomorrow.

* * *

_**A/N: **And that's a wrap for Part One! If the loose ends are making you batty, don't fret, there is more on the way. I'll be taking a break to get Part Two sorted out, as well as allow some time for me to play the hell out of Wrath of the Lich King. Big thanks to those who reviewed, and if you haven't yet, now is a good time! I'd love to hear from you while I'm getting Part Two together. I think the biggest lesson I can take away from Part One is this: Don't kill Anne. Got it. I won't kill her in part two. In all seriousness though, I'm always happy for input, especially in the planning stage! See you soon.  
_


	14. Chapter 14: Part Two: Baby Makes Four

_**Forsaken – Part Two – Baby Makes Four**_

Makenzie was sick.

He'd been in denial about it for awhile. At first, in his defense, everything had _seemed_ fine. She'd been her usual perky, half-vacant self. Aside from the nightmares she had now, it was almost as though nothing at all had happened to her. Makenzie wasn't the type to dwell on bad things that had happened to her, either.

It had been little things he'd noticed at first, but he hadn't counted them as illness. As she slept on her stomach, nestled in close to him, Ivan absently ran a hand through her hair. Her hair had become more vibrant. No longer the remembrance of red, it _was _red, as lustrous as it must've been when she was alive. Her skin wasn't quite so pale, either, a healthier tone replacing the usual pallid near-grey all Forsaken seemed to sport. It wasn't flesh colored by any means, but there was a vitality to it.

That alone, of course, ought to have been some sort of warning sign. Drastic physical alterations, even if they seemed positive, couldn't be the best side effect.

Then she'd started to be hungry. No more than any living creature might be, but... they weren't exactly alive, were they? She ate a few times a day now, seemed driven too, unable to go without. Again, nothing weird for a living thing, but...

Now? Now she slept in longer and longer, her usually bright demeanor dampened and cross and generally miserable. She seemed peaceful enough now as she slept, but as soon as she woke up she'd start in on Ivan, and not even Igor was safe from her wrath as the day wore on.

Ivan sighed and slid out of bed, cautious not to wake her, and made his way into the bathroom. There were other things that had been nagging at him, but he just did his best not to think about it. Maybe it would go away on its own. It wasn't like she was vomiting up the remains of her guts or communing with the Lich King or anything extreme. She was just... _different_. Nothing to be alarmed about.

He regarded his reflection dully and scratched at his chin, the stubble there a bit itchy-

Stubble.

_What?_

Ivan leaned forward sharply and pressed his face up close to the bathroom mirror, eyes wide, and ran a hand over his chin. _ He was growing hair_. Not a lot. Not even on the top of his head. Just his chin, apparently, but it was enough to be alarming.

Had he... had he _caught_ what Makenzie had? How long had it even been since he'd had to shave? Did he even still have a razor?

_Why was he growing hair!? _ Was it anywhere else!? He began to check himself over frantically, checking the top of his head more than once, but no, whatever was wrong with him of course hadn't bothered with his head. Damn.

Oh hells, it was... there. His happy trail was back. He had been blonde in life, so it was faint, but it was there. This was... this was _extremely alarming_. Why just those areas? Absently he rubbed his chin again, wondering if he looked rugged or just bizarre. Who ever heard of a corpse that needed to shave?

He could_ feel _the stubble. It was itchy. _Harsh_. Ivan looked at his hands and stared, and it took him a moment to notice. His hands were still mostly claws but they seemed to be covered in a thin film of... something. New skin, maybe?

"Shit," Ivan announced quietly. He was sick too, apparently. Just not moody about it. Maybe he wasn't as bad yet. He shouldn't have kept Makenzie's kidnapping quiet, but after all she'd been through, he didn't want her to be subjected to an Apothecary inquiry so soon after her ordeal. So he'd put it off to the point that bringing it up was probably criminal negligence on his part,_ so_ Ivan was game to just leave the matter rest entirely.

Except now he had the same symptoms as she did, and he didn't know what that meant. What had the Burning Legion _done_ to her?

"Up alread- ah! Ivan! Wear pants!" Igor said, putting up his hands to block his view of his twin, "Or at least a robe. I could _swear_ you have some sort of exhibitionist streak."

"Maybe you should knock," Ivan replied automatically, grabbing for a towel. Should he ask Igor? Igor didn't look any different. Not anywhere visible. Ivan grimaced – no, he wasn't going there.

"I live here too," Igor protested, "Lock the door if you need privacy. I... Ivan, are you growing a _beard?_"

The priest blinked at his brother, lowering his hands.

"No," Ivan said defensively. Was it that noticeable!?

"You are!" Igor protested, "How long have you been able to do that? What about on top of your head-"

"I'm_ not!_" Ivan snapped, cinching the towel around his waist severely, "I just... noticed it this morning."

He'd been telling the truth more. To Igor, at least. Ever since their little romp in Northrend, Ivan had found it difficult to take his brother entirely for granted. He _was_ a priest. Maybe he could figure something out.

"Just noticed it?" Igor frowned, picking up on his twins uneasiness, "Ivan, what is it?"

"Have you noticed how Makenzie has been acting a little... off, lately?"

"Mmm," Igor said drolly, "Breakfast is ready for Her Majesty, speaking of which."

"Oh, what did you make?" Ivan asked him. Maybe he'd been treating his brother better, but that didn't mean he'd completely changed his character. The less he had to talk about his problems the better.

"Bacon and... Ivan! Don't!" Igor protested, catching on quickly and waving his hands, "Tell me what's-"

"How come you're being so loud in here?" a sleepy voice wondered. Both men turned guiltily to regard Makenzie, who was wearing one of Ivan's tunic's. She had robes and nighties of her own, but apparently liked the way the warlock's tunic slid off her shoulder every few seconds better. Makenzie rubbed one of her (much brighter lately, weren't they?) luminous amber eyes and shuffled over to Ivan. He bent down automatically to kiss her cheek and she squeaked in dismay.

"You're all scratchy!" she frowned, rubbing her cheek, "Yuck!"

"Sorry," Ivan said stupidly.

"I made breakfast, 'Kenzie, if you're hungry," Igor said quickly. He kept his eyes fixed on his brother.

"Ohh, I'm starving," she agreed, "Thanks Igor! You're great!"

Mekanzie promptly abandoned the two of them for breakfast, and Igor snapped his fingers in front of his brother's face to get his attention. Ivan had been watching her exit with great interest.

"Huh?" he said. Igor looked annoyed. That wasn't really new, though.

"You're _both_ acting weird," Igor frowned, "Makenzie aside, why do you have a five o'clock shadow? How is that _possible?_"

"Same way that Makenzie's hair is red I guess," Ivan said with a nervous shrug, "Just... a side effect."

"A side effect that's _catching?_"

"It's nothing!" the warlock protested adamantly. Really, what was so bad about growing hair!? Weirder things had happened.

"She was captured by the Legion for nearly a week," Igor said, crosser by the second, "What _else_ have you noticed that I haven't, Ivan, that should be addressed instead of swept under the table!? This is _Makenzie_ we're talking about. Your _wife_, if I recall. Aren't you the least bit concern-"

"Of course I am!" Ivan snarled, clenched his hands into fists. Normally such a statement would've been followed by a right hook, but he swallowed the violent urge, jaw ticking with the effort, "I just have no idea what to think, Igor, and I don't want to scare her until I figure it out."

Igor didn't look completely impressed or convinced, "You should have brought this up at the Apothecary Society meetings. You only go to them every week, Ivan, and it's been _how_ long since we've been back? Half the year now?"

"Lectures only work on your acolytes, Igor, not me," Ivan growled, "I don't want her to end up in a lab being poked at again. She still has nightmares, you know. Unless it's life threatening I don't see the need to worry too much. All right?"

Igor wasn't convinced, but it was early, and Ivan wanted to get a little breakfast in before Makenzie devoured it all. He waved his twin off and shouldered past him, cutting him off with a, "Yeah yeah, later," as he went to get some pants on. Igor spluttered a few protests, but Ivan didn't hear them. They could talk about it later. It'd been put off for months already, after all. What harm would breakfast do?

Pants on – he was mostly certain they were clean ones – he slouched out to the dining room to join his wife and his brother.

Igor was back in the kitchen, cooking some bacon, and gave Ivan a very meaningful stare. Ivan nodded at him casually. Hadn't he already cooked breakfast, though?

"Morning," Makenzie said, noticeably perkier with a cleared plate, "Igor's making some more bacon. You still have a scratchy chin!"

She reached out daintily to pet his chin, a smile curling her lips. Apparently, she was in a good mood today. They were rare these days.

"I'll shave it after breakfast," Ivan assured her, leaning down to her, menacing her with his stubble. She squealed and swatted at him and he grinned, ceasing his teasing and running a hand fondly through her fiery hair. See? Nothing was wrong.

"Ivan? Could you help me with this a moment?" Igor called out. Ivan shifted his jaw and planted a kiss on Makenzie's forehead before slipping away, leaving her to munch on the remains of a biscuit.

"What?" Ivan scowled.

Igor looked him over once. The priest had been fully dressed since sun up, of course, and took a moment from his busy schedule of being sanctimonious to disapprove of Ivan's rumpled pants.

"She ate all of breakfast," Igor said in an conspiratous and quiet voice, "She eats like... like we used to when we were teenagers! It's bizarre! Has she gained any weight?"

"No!" Ivan protested, perhaps too loudly. Not enough to rouse Makenzie's suspicions, at least. They were fairly difficult to rouse.

"You see her everyday without..." Igor cleared his throat awkwardly, "That is to say, you see _all_ of her. I don't. I'm not attacking her character Ivan, I'm just wondering where it's all _going_."

"Well maybe she's put on a little but it's barely noticeable," Ivan said quickly, scowling. It was on his list of 'little things that didn't hurt anything'. She was still the most attractive dead woman he'd ever seen. So what if she was curvier? He didn't mind it at all.

"Not anywhere I've noticed."

If it had been anyone else, Ivan would've throttled someone for insinuating they were checking out his wife. It was Igor, though. His brother. He couldn't kill his twin.

Who would make breakfast?

"Her middle," Ivan muttered, "Probably because she can't digest all of it fast enough."

"This is serious, Ivan, the Legion must've screwed with her... with her metabolism or something," Igor looked frustrated, "I don't know much about those sorts of things. An_ Apothecary _needs to look at her."

"A doctor," Ivan protested, "Not an Apothecary. I'm one and I don't know what's going on with her."

Igor looked upward and took a moment to turn the sizzling bacon.

"A doctor, then," he amended, "You don't even have to tell them what's wrong. Just have them check her out and see if they find anything."

"It'd have to be someone that won't blab if it _is_ something," Ivan frowned, leaning against the counter. He accepted a strip of bacon from his twin and gnawed on it thoughtfully. Did he know anyone he could trust? He didn't really have a lot of friends, and the only doctor-like people he was on friendly terms with was his brother and Shalar'zahn. Neither were doctors.

Unless... no. A trip to Outlands didn't seem safe. What if the Legion was still after her? No harm would come to them in Shattrath, of course, but for the Legion to be alerted of their status and whereabouts seemed like a poor choice.

"If it gets worse, we'll see," the warlock decided.

"Ivan-"

"Don't push me," Ivan snapped. He regretted the tone he took instantly, the flash of fear on his twins face lancing straight to his heart. Quickly, he added, in a much less dangerous tone, "I know what I'm doing. It's nothing bad, per say, just... odd. I don't-"

A loud bang from the dining room startled him and he moved quickly out to check on it, heart leaping into his throat. He was vaguely aware of Igor pressing in behind him, and only saw a flash of red as Makenzie fled the room.

Her chair was upended, as though she'd stood so quickly it had been knocked over, but nothing else seemed amiss.

"'Kenzie? Baby?" Ivan called out in concern. Igor was right, he should've done something about this months ago, not wait until whatever awful disease she had incubated and spread and was... making her vomit?

She was retching powerfully into the toilet and Ivan relaxed, but only slightly, kneeling beside her and rubbing her back, pulling her hair away from her face.

"You shouldn't eat breakfast so fast," he said quietly. She made a miserable noise and threw up again, and he looked over at Igor.

Igor had a pensive, worried look on his face. It wasn't new, of course, but it was rarely an expression he needed for Makenzie.

"Should I start packing?" the priest wondered, raising his brows at Ivan.

"I think you'd better," Ivan said. Her vomit, he noted with morbid fascination, was a liquefied version of what she'd eaten for breakfast. Nothing else, at least. No blood or suspicious objects or otherwise, but that it'd been converted to sludge so quickly was worrying, and vomiting wasn't really something the undead tended to do. Not involuntarily, anyway, and certainly not with such obvious discomfort.

"I don't feel good," Makenzie mumbled, slumping back against Ivan miserably. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a very light squeeze.

"We'll fix it," he assured her as Igor left to arrange their things, "We haven't been to Shattrath in awhile. I know someone there who might be able to help."

"Okay," she said wearily. Ivan gathered her up and took her back to bed, trying not to appear concerned in any way. He doubted she would pick up on it, but he'd rather not give her a chance to when she was already in such distress.

Then again, it was his misguided ideas of protection that had led to this situation. Not her kidnapping, but the subsequent denial of what had happened to her, and the idea that whatever _had_ happened, the Apothecary Societies proddings would be worse.

Ivan sighed and tucked her in, sitting next to her as she curled up and stroking her hair.

"Ivan?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yeah?" he grunted.

"They did something bad to me, huh?"

"Nothing we can't fix, 'Kenzie," he assured her, not terribly confident in the truth of his statement, "You just rest, okay? Maybe only have a little bit for lunch, too, even if you're really hungry."

It was her turn to sigh, the sound rather world weary, and she closed her eyes.

"Okay, Ivan," she murmured.

She went back to sleep so quickly that Ivan felt an unpleasant gnaw of fear, pulling on his robes before going to Igor's room. The priest's room looked like it didn't even belong in the cluttered home. Igor kept everything just _so_, and his very few possessions were tucked away neatly. Ivan thought it was weird to be as clean as Igor was, but at least he kept it to his own room – trying to reorganize Ivan's things had caused problems.

"I shouldn't have waited so long," Ivan said.

"No, you shouldn't have," Igor agreed. His brother, apparently, was not in a charitable mood, "I can't _wait _until you start getting extra moody and eating everything you see. Light, it's like she's going through puberty again."

"It was gradual," the warlock scowled, helping himself to a seat on a rather uncomfortable chair, "I mean, I didn't even notice at first! Well, I did, but I just... it didn't seem possible. I thought maybe I'd just never really looked at her or... or something like that."

Nearly losing Makenzie had changed some things, but clearly not enough. Guilt was pressing down on him hard now. Would it take her death to make him stop acting like a complete jackass whenever possible?

He ran a hand over his face (he needed to shave, by the nether that was so _bizarre_) and looked at his brother, who was regarding him reproachfully.

"What's done is done, Ivan," Igor tried to reason. He always did his best to justify his twin's flagrant irresponsibility, "We'll deal with whatever's next together. We're family, right?"

"We're a pretty fucked up family."

"Maybe you are," Igor sniffed, tucking his things neatly in a pack, "I'm well adjusted."

"Well adjusted people have dust in their room," Ivan teased, cracking half a smile. Making fun of his brother always made him feel better, "At least my problems are obvious. Who _knows_ what's wrong with you."

"Shouldn't you be packing?" Igor said archly. There was no venom in his tone, and he was smirking, but he did make a point. The sooner they left, the better.

* * *

Six months was an eternity when lived day by day. Every moment was so _fragile_, a false construct that was still somehow supposed to serve as a distraction.

Anne was still dead. He was still alone.

He hadn't moved. The drawers that had held Anne's things were empty. He pulled clothing from his own drawers, transferring them into a satchel. Though there were no mirrors in the bedroom, Edgar knew his face was drawn and strained. He didn't sleep in this room anymore. It was easier to just use the guest room.

Little patches like that were part of the construct. He did guard work for the zeppelin towers now instead of working for the military. Visiting Teegan, Murdok, and Shalar'zahn was a pleasant enough distraction, so he did it whenever he had some time off like he did now. The baby troll seemed to be growing up so fast already, and that thought made him smile. It was wan, but it was still a smile.

Yvette had faired rather well. After she'd repeatedly turned down Sylvanas' request to become a liaison between the Ebon Hold and the Undercity, Highlord Mograine had insisted. She was a diplomat now, and the humor of the situation wasn't lost on either of them.

The Death Knight was not a very good diplomat, but the fact remained that she was the only one of her kind who managed to have a _friend_.

Edgar smiled a bit more in earnest, closing the satchel and shouldering it. Despite her protests to the contrary, Yvette was a good friend. Her dry, black humor always made him laugh, and her unique perspective on things helped keep him centered.

If it weren't for her, he'd still be slumped over Anne's grave, lost in despair.

His smile left instantly and he stopped in the main room, fingers tightening on the shoulder strap of his bag. Though he'd tried visiting Anne's grave less, he wasn't sure it made any difference. His grief wasn't any less. Not any_ more_, at least. That couldn't even be possible.

He felt like a broken down toy, its enchantment winding down, making him repeat the same stuttering action over and over. Yvette was there every time, her burning grip barely registering as she half dragged him out of the cemetery. Edgar didn't even know if she visited Antoine's grave anymore. She wouldn't talk about.

Yvette kept that part of herself dead and locked away. Once he'd told her that he envied her, and he'd thought she might actually kill him for a moment. It had been such a ferocious, raw fury in her one good eye that he'd quickly apologized. He never dared say anything like that aloud again.

He sighed and pushed out the door, forcing his feet to move even though they seemed rooted to the floor. Every day was like this, an excruciating exercise in motivation.

Tegan was his motivation today. She was saying his name during his last visit. 'Egger' was close enough in his opinion.

Out the door. Edgar took a deep breath and closed his door behind him, turning to face the bustling Undercity. It was almost continuously busy, many residents not bothering with sleep. Edgar wasn't among them – sleep was another way to avoid spending his waking moments...

He grit his teeth, setting his jaw, and began his walk to the inner ring. The Undercity reminded him a bit like a beehive. A normal human city had more disorganized chaos, but here... even though they were freed from mindless servitude, some remnant of their former shackles kept them orderly and efficient.

It wasn't just Forsaken, not at the height of the day. The other members of the Horde stuck out in the sea of undead, their path's more uncertain, more meandering. They looked and felt like outsider's here and he didn't blame them. What living thing wouldn't find the living dead unsettling?

A rather loud shriek drew his attention, setting him on edge, and he jerked his head around. The scene before him was (to his great relief) rather comical, though the owner of the shriek didn't think so.

There was a fluffy white kitten bounding madly through the crowd, a ghoul hot on its tail. Though he didn't recognize the cat (who would bring something like that to a city like this?), the ghoul he did recognize. Being an official meant Yvette was very busy with communications and meetings, and she'd been provided an aide by Ebon Hold.

Casketdrinker (as he'd named himself, apparently) was... sharper than _most_ ghouls. Yvette only used him to deliver messages back and forth to Ebon Hold, preferring to take care of most administrative duties herself. The ghoul was like a homing pigeon, able to make its way through the Plaguelands without a guide or an escort, so he was a very efficient messenger.

Except for the whole... eating stray pets thing he appeared to have going on.

Or in this case, any pet that he happened to see. Hot on the ghoul's trail was a sin'dorei, her face screwed up in a mixture of fury and fear. All three were coming straight at him, it seemed, and he dropped his satchel to scoop up kitten. It struggled in his grip – he was no better than the ghoul to its nose – but he kept a hold of it as Casketdrinker bounded up, gangly claws flexing eagerly.

"You give?!" the ghoul asked, bumping up against Edgar like a eager dog. A rather large eager dog that nearly knocked Edgar off his feet. He tried his best to keep his grip on the wriggly cat with one hand, trying to fend Casketdrinker off with the other.

"No, Casketdrinker," he said sternly, "This isn't yours."

The ghoul stopped jumping and grabbing when the sin'dorei finally caught up, her pale skin flush from her exertion, dark hair falling into her face.

"I hope you're not going to eat my kitten instead," she huffed, favoring them both with disdainful looks.

"No, of course not," Edgar said awkwardly, attempting to get a better grip on the kitten. It had dug its claws into his shirt and prying it off was proving difficult, "Casketdrinker doesn't know any better."

He glanced at the ghoul, who was still drooling, and sighed, "You shouldn't let your pets run wild here, Miss. It's not really safe."

"I don't need lectures from the likes of you," she said. The elf had an imperious air about her and she held out her hands expectantly, not bothering to help pry the kitten off. Like most members of her race, her bearing suggested that she actually owned the place, and he ought to watch it or she'd have him kicked out. He didn't know how elves managed it, but this one was no exception.

Edgar grimaced at her, not sure what he'd done to deserve the treatment, and finally managed to pry the kitten off. He handed it over and she cradled the kitten to her chest like a baby, cooing at it, shooting him an icy glare.

Bending to pick up his satchel with one hand, he quickly took Casketdrinker's arm with the other to keep the ghoul from bothering the irritable sin'dorei.

"Come on, Gerry, you silly kitty," she said to the kitten, scratching the top of the kitten's ears, "Let's go home. Mommy was so_ worried!_ Yes she was!"

Without even a thank you, she turned and strutted off, a swath of vibrant red in a sea of greys and greens. Edgar turned his head and looked at the ghoul, raising his brows. The ghoul blinked back unevenly, thick ropes of drool danging from his jagged jaws.

"You can't eat peoples pets, Casketdrinker," he lectured, letting go of the ghoul and shouldering his bag again, "Where's Yvette?"

"Meeting," the ghoul said, scratching at the moldering remains of an ear.

Edgar sighed. He'd miss the morning zeppelin, but Casketdrinker had become something of a pet in his mind, and so he couldn't just leave him to wander the Undercity, trying to eat snooty sin'dorei's pets.

"Come on," he said, gesturing to the ghoul, "I'll take you home."

Casketdrinker (he'd laughed for a long time when he'd first heard the name) ambled alongside Edgar. Ghouls were only a more advanced progression of the Scourge virus, mental faculties further broken down as it radically twisted their physiology into something even more inhuman. Though he supposed it was sentimental, he felt they owed something to ghouls that were severed from the Lich King. To look out for them.

Yvette didn't agree, but she rarely did when it came to sentimental things. Despite the disagreement, he knew she held some... _fondness_ for her assistant. He'd seen the ghoul's place in her quarters, the cozy nest of blankets that Edgar assumed Casketdrinker slept on. The ghoul was something of a roommate _and_ a pet in a way, so he didn't tease her about it. Not that Yvette was really a teasable person.

He'd offered to share his own home with her multiple times, partly to get her out of the rather dubious hole in the wall she called home, and partly to ease his own loneliness. Edgar thought it might not be so bad with someone else to fill the silence, even if it was only a friend.

She always refused. Every time. Edgar hadn't even really been able to draw a reason out of her, but he hadn't pressed the issue either. She was a solitary creature, though at times he felt like it was somewhat forced upon her. He'd stopped giving her plants for her room – they were wilted and dead within a day.

Edgar sighed as they turned a corner. It could almost be passed off as an alley, it was so narrow, but there were rows of doors instead of dumpsters and trashcans. He shooed Casketdrinker in front of him, towards Yvette's door, wondering how the ghoul had even gotten out. Yvette always kept her door locked. Had the ghoul wandered away from a meeting?

"You found him."

In spite of himself, Edgar jumped and whirled, putting a hand over his chest when he saw it was only Yvette, her one baleful blue eye piercing him. His heart hadn't pounded in quite some time, but the gesture was automatic.

"Don't sneak up on me like that, Yvette," he groused, making room for her in the narrow hall. They were friends, but her presence still set some part of him on edge. He'd hoped that it would eventually go away, that he'd get used to it, but she seemed to have a miasma of _discomfort_ about her. Like he couldn't quite be at ease, couldn't totally trust her intentions. He didn't like the feeling.

"He was trying to eat someone's cat," Edgar offered when she didn't respond to his sneaking comment.

"Oh?" she said, not sounding terribly interested, "Are you sure he was trying to eat it?"

The question gave Edgar pause as she passed, ignoring Casketdrinker as he bumped up against her like a dog happy to see its master. It hadn't occurred to him that the ghoul might've wanted the kitten for something other than lunch.

"What else would he do with it?" he wondered blearily. Yvette pushed open the door to her small apartment – the door stuck and so she pushed rather hard – and stepped inside.

"He brings home strays all the time," Yvette said, irritably prying the ghoul off of her and setting a sheaf of papers on a rickety desk. Making growly babbling noises, the ghoul shuffled off to his corner, settling into it and watching the two of them silently. Edgar shot the ghoul an somewhat uneasy look, feeling odd discussing him while he was right there. Yvette seemed to think it was fine, though.

"I just figured..."

"He named himself Casketdrinker," Yvette said, turning to face Edgar, "He's a bit addled."

Edgar felt guilty for assuming the ghoul just wanted to eat the kitten. It had been a cute kitten. Who wouldn't have wanted to take it home?

"Edgar," Yvette said sharply, making him jerk his head up, "Stop."

"What?" he protested guiltily. How did she always see straight through him?

"_Most_ ghouls like to eat cats," she said, "I seem to attract weird things. Don't add it to your list of things to feel terrible about."

Yvette paused and added, in a less severe voice, "You're leaving?"

"For Durotar, yes," he said.

"You missed the morning zeppelin," she said, staring at him.

"I know," he sighed, gesturing to Casketdrinker, "I couldn't just leave him to wander around."

"He doesn't need looking after, Edgar," Yvette said.

"Still..."

"He isn't a child."

"Obviously, but-"

"Tegan is better off with the trolls."

Edgar set his jaw, but he couldn't hold the one-eyed gaze for very long. That wasn't very fair. He knew that Tegan was better off with the trolls. They took very good care of her. Better than he could manage, still wallowing in grief six month's after his wife's death. She was learning her own language from them. Growing up normally despite her rocky start and dubious connections.

"I know," he said, still not looking at her, "What does that have to do with anything? Why bring it up?"

"You try to take care of everyone but yourself," Yvette said. An icy hand grabbed his jaw and forced him to look up. He tried to flinch away but her grip was like iron, "You're the one who needs it most."

"You're hurting me," Edgar said stiffly. Her touch, without the buffer of a leather glove or a metal gauntlet, _burned_.

Yvette didn't respond right away, the points of her bony fingers digging into his flesh, and for a few terrible moments he thought she might...

She released him a moment later, flexing the hand she'd touched him with as though she'd gotten something unpleasant on it.

"You can't go on like this," Yvette said, voice quiet, "You're coming apart at the seams."

"I'm fine," he protested, both hands squeezing the shoulder strap of his bag, "It's just... it's been hard. My wife _died_, Yvette. She died right in front of me and I couldn't do a damned thing!"

His voice wavered and he felt his proverbial seams coming undone. It wasn't as though he had an elaborate facade set up. Every day was another shaky step in a direction he wasn't even sure of.

"Nothing you do now can change what happened, Edgar."

"I know that!" he shouted, looking up at her angrily, "Don't needle me about this, Yvette. I just... I need time!"

"I dragged you out of the cemetery a few days ago like it had just happened that day," she said. Her voice had taken on an emotionless quality, void of compassion. He knew that meant the opposite – it was her version of caring – but it was too harsh for him just now.

"I don't want to talk about this," Edgar said, "I only get to see Tegan once a month, and-"

"Anne's dead Edgar," Yvette interrupted, "You can't dwell on it forever."

"And you can't pretend that people dying doesn't change anything!" he heard himself shout. Edgar was startled by his own outburst and he was sure it showed on his face. He even backed up a step, as though his words might turn around and snap at him.

"I don't _pretend_," Yvette said. It was only his imagination, but the room seemed suddenly colder.

"Do you even visit his grave?" Edgar asked. His posture was defensive even though he was asking a rather confrontational question.

"I don't need too."

"Why not? He was your _brother_. Your _family_, Yvette, and you killed-"

This time, her grip had less friendly intent. He was vaguely aware of his feet dangling off the floor. Sometimes he forgot how strong she was, and though he wasn't really strangling, he grabbed her wrist out of instinct, shocked by the violence of what she was doing.

"I did what I had too," she hissed at him, "I have _always_ done what I had too do for my brother. For my_self_."

Emotion wasn't really Yvette's strong suit. Not soft emotions, anyway. Things like rage and hatred flowed out of her easily. Sometimes it seemed to Edgar like she enjoyed being angry, that she _enjoyed_ excuses to use brute force to solve problems.

"What are you doing now?" he asked, voice strained as he tried to talk around her grip. She could have made things a lot worse, a lot more uncomfortable. He would take some small comfort in that, though he couldn't recall ever pushing her this far before.

Realization flitted across her haggard, skeletal features and she let go of him suddenly, recoiling a step.

"I... Edgar, I didn't mean to-"

"It's all right," he said, trying not to shake as he rubbed his throat, "I had no right to say that. You didn't deserve it."

"You don't either, Edgar," she protested, "I... I just haven't been thinking about it."

Edgar leaned against the wall heavily and only nodded. He didn't believe her. If it were up to Yvette, she'd let everyone think she was some sort of half-automaton who turned off in her closet when she wasn't performing any duties. Edgar knew better. She was even more introverted than he was.

Right now he didn't feel like arguing, however. Sometimes their friendship felt so strange and tenuous, like he was a wounded animal and she was a ravenous wolf. One day he would strumble, and her jaws would close around his throat out of instinct, and that would be that.

But he didn't really have anyone else who _understood_.

She didn't either.

Obviously things had been eating away at her, perhaps a great deal more than what he'd been going through in a way. He wore the remains of his heart on his sleeve. It was no mystery to anyone why Edgar Jerrik was always such a sad sack. Yvette, though... she kept it all inside. All of it. Even after she'd killed her brother (_again_) she'd just... pushed through. At first he'd bought that she had just been incapable of feeling anything more on the subject, but after watching her treat her shambling, rotting aide like a pet... after she dragged him out of the cemetery time and time again...

"You know you can talk to me about it, Yvette," he offered, feeling awkward and stupid offering help to someone who could rip him apart with very little effort, "About Antoine. It doesn't... it doesn't have to be about negative things. Sometimes it helps to think about... about the nicer things. Like... like what he might say about you having a ghoul that likes kittens."

As he spoke and she didn't snarl, he felt a bit more confident, and he continued, "Anne would probably laugh and laugh. She was always... she really_ meant_ it when she laughed. I knew I'd made a good joke when she'd let out a good long laugh. Usually it was just a smirk or a chuckle, but a laugh..."

He felt a smile twitch onto his face. Edgar had always prided himself on being able to get a laugh out of Anne when no one else could. Maybe he ought to take his own advice and not spend his time in the graveyard wailing about not being able to save her.

There was a thought.

Yvette was staring at him, though she did flick a look at Casketdrinker, his sunken, yellow eyes wide.

"He'd go buy a kitten right away," Yvette offered suddenly, her voice halting, "Antoine liked to make people happy."

Edgar nodded. He kept the gesture small and unobtrusive, nervous that he might somehow spook her and her attempt at sharing a memory that was before she'd been turned.

"He couldn't have pets," she continued abruptly, her eye pinning him to the wall again. Yvette was watching him closely for a reaction, though he didn't know exactly what kind, "Antoine got too attached. If they died he'd be in shambles."

"Sounds like he was a gentle soul," Edgar tried.

"He was _brittle_," Yvette snapped, teeth clicking together angrily, "Too brittle."

"You can't protect someone completely," the ex-soldier said, taking a tentative step forward. The irony of his words wasn't lost on him at all, "Not all the time. Sometimes... sometimes things happen. It... what happened to you and your brother wasn't your fault, Yvette."

Her silence told him that she felt otherwise.

"Why don't you come with me? To Durotar, I mean," he offered, blurting it out without thinking. She'd never vocalized a desire to visit the trolls or Tegan, but that didn't mean she hadn't thought of it.

"I have a lot of duties here," Yvette said. He imagined the corners of her mouth tugged down into a frown. Though her lipless mouth seemed eternally frozen into a grim, toothy smile, he thought he could make out the twitches of other expressions on her face. Or maybe it was wishful thinking.

"Just for a few days. Or even a day," he said, "What was your meeting about?"

"It's classified," she told him crisply.

"Was it really important? Or can you just leave it?" he asked.

"It was important," she assured him, "You should get going or you'll have to take the evening zeppelin."

Edgar frowned. Just like that, everything was back to normal, then? The same awkward silences and light banter? Should he let her close off like that so suddenly, or should he take it as progress and leave it be?

Perhaps his idea of who was a wolf and who was a wounded animal was completely wrong.

"If you change your mind, Yvette, I'll be in Sen'jin," he said.

"Have fun," was her curt reply.

He wrestled with a great deal in a short span of time, even glancing at Casketdrinker for some ludicrous reason. As if the ghoul could offer any moral support in this situation.

Yvette was the only reason he was still alive. Sometimes he'd run into the Forlon's, but they were more acquaintances than anything else. If he ran into any of them with any frequency, it was usually Ivan, who was visibly uncomfortable being around Edgar. Ivan wasn't much of a feelings person either, he'd gathered, and so the two of them weren't very compatible. It was all right – Edgar didn't think he was missing too much. Yvette was a good enough friend.

His only friend, really.

She looked smaller lately, dressed in the robes of a public official instead of the heavy armor of a Death Knight. It had to make her miserable on some level, dealing with problems using words and not her runeblade. The blade itself hung over her desk, gleaming and malevolent even without being held by its mistress. He'd been able to find a new job at least, a change of scenery. She'd been shoehorned into the position of a diplomat when he knew she'd much prefer to be caving in skulls or... or_ melting_ things.

It struck him then that it had taken him six months to realize that Yvette was miserable. He'd been so wrapped up in Anne's death that he hadn't even wanted to see any other suffering. Not suffering that he couldn't solve, at any rate.

"You should take a break, Yvette," Edgar persisted, "Everyone gets time off. Have you taken any time off since you were assigned?"

"Time off?" Yvette repeated. She was going to be a hard sell and he smirked.

"You're right, I should be getting on the next zeppelin," he said, wagging a finger at her, "But when I get back, we're going on a trip or something. You can't get out of it so don't try."

"Edgar, I don't enjoy _trips_."

"Too bad," he said, "You need a change of scenery. We both do. It'll be fun. Have you ever been to Shattrath?"

"Somehow I doubt the naaru will find my presence desirable, Edgar."

He smiled and awkwardly put out a hand, squeezing her bony shoulder, "Everyone has to visit the World's End Tavern at least once. My treat."

Her eye moved to his hand and then to his face.

"Maybe," she said, "You should get going."

Edgar sighed and nodded.

"I'll see you in a few days, Yvette," he said, removing his hand, "Take care of yourself, all right?"

"I will if you do," she said gruffly.

Though he never followed through, Edgar always felt compelled to give the Death Knight a hug. She wasn't big on touching, Yvette, and it was for good reason. Even standing next to her was physically uncomfortable, and prolonged touch tended to burn. He was willing to bet he had faint burn marks on his pale skin from where she'd grabbed him, but he didn't mind. Nobody really questioned injuries on other Forsaken. Not something as minor as discolored skin, anyway.

"Bye, Yvette," he said. She practically herded him out the door, closing it solidly behind him, leaving him rather abruptly alone in the hall. Edgar shook his head and pointed himself towards the Trade Quarter. At least he had something to think about that didn't involve Anne on the ride to Durotar.

Thinking about whether he ought to feel guilty about _that_ thought, however, was what would keep him from sleeping tonight.

* * *

_**A/N:** Told you I was working on it! Shout out to my homegirls mirari1 and Nara Bluestar for giving me the will and inspiration to carry on. Big thanks to my reviewers as well - I hope you enjoy this part as much as the first._


	15. Chapter 15

Durotar's dry heat had always been Murdok's preference. He'd grown up in the muggy jungles and on the coast and hadn't found himself missing out. Shalar'zahn liked it, though, and so he'd been readjusting to muggy Echo Isle mornings. Despite their mutual concern that Tegan wouldn't take well to the heat, the baby troll seemed more than fine with it, acclimating without so much as a fuss.

Though he was usually the type to rise with the dawn, Murdok had stayed up far too late, after working for far too long, and the soreness in his limbs made him groan. He reached for Shalar'zahn – it had been her fault they'd stayed up so late, after all – but found nothing but bedding in her place. One eye opened, then the other, and he smirked.

The troll sat up with another groan, swinging his long limbs over the edge of the bed and stretching his arms out, face splitting into a yawn. Murdok itched at his chin, noting he needed to shave, and ran this thick fingers through his short, dark blue hair. He'd threatened to shave it all off, so it wasn't a hassle, but Shalar'zahn had threatened him when he'd brought up the idea.

Taking a moment to check himself over, he was glad most of his marks from the night before had healed over. His blueish skin was unblemished now, the only damage underneath. Many trolls were scarred, even displayed such scars proudly, evidence of near-fatal wounds proving their battle prowess and stamina.

Murdok was of the opinion that if he got hit that hard, he was doing something wrong. Sometimes Shalar'zahn teased him for it, but he knew she was grateful he'd never been in such mortal danger.

Thinking of her he pulled on a kilt, not bothering to cinch it with a belt and letting it ride low on his hips. It was a far cry from his form-fitting leathers and he was not the sort that felt the need to be 'on duty' even in private. He could still be alert and ready for attack when he was enjoying the peace and quiet of his home – if he was unable, again, he considered it a sign he was not quite so skilled as he considered.

It was quiet indoors, and so he could only assume that Shalar'zahn had taken Tegan outside. He went to find them, checking the beach first, and his hunch proved out. The rogue leaned against the trunk of a palm tree as he took in the scene, folding his lanky arms over his chest.

She had taken immediately to the care of the baby troll. That had been no surprised to him. He surprised himself with how quickly he'd become endeared to the little creature. Though she was not his own, he had been finding it easy to put such a thought from his mind. Murdok didn't feel as though he was her father just yet, but he was a very endeared babysitter so far.

Shalar'zahn was giving Tegan a morning bath, and he was still unsurprised to find both parties bereft of clothing. He'd learned some modesty turning his time amongst Thrall's scouts. Though orcs were not the sort to be ashamed of their bodies either, they insisted that trolls actually _preferred_ being naked, so often were they without clothing. It was obviously something learned, and it started young.

The shadow hunter was crouched in the shallows of the clear ocean water up to her shoulders, he long dreadlocks floating the surface or sticking to her wet skin. She had Tegan under her tiny arms, letting the baby kick gleefully, laughing freely as only children could.

"Whatcha laughin' at?" the trolless grinned, lifting the baby up out of the water and holding her up over her head. Tegan kicked her stubby legs and squealed, delighted when Shalar'zahn brought their faces close together. Shalar'zahn nuzzled the baby, and imagining she was in private, embraced the baby tightly. Murdok watched her face tighten somewhat, as though pained, but he knew that it was only because she was so happy. It saddened him, that she felt as though she were _too_ happy. Would his harsh words always haunt her?

"Ma," Tegan cooed, patting Shalar'zahn. She had a small repertoire of words, most of it still babbling, but what words she did manage to say were clear enough. Shalar'zahn sighed and smiled at the baby, kissing her curly mop of white hair.

"Whatchoo girls doin' eh?" Murdok finally interjected. He strolled forward, hitching his kilt, and stood on the edge of the water.

"Jes' takin' a bath," Shalar'zahn said. She didn't seem startled by his appearance, and he wondered how long she'd known of his presence.

Murdok discarded the kilt and waded out to them. Tegan squealed in delight, waving her chubby arms.

"Pa!" she exclaimed, stretching for him. He took her with a laugh and tossed her upwards, catching the shrieking child on her way down and spinning her in a circle before shifting her to one arm. While the baby laughed merrily he snaked a long arm around Shalar'zahn, pulling her close and rubbing his cheek against hers. She caught one of his large tusks and held him still, carefully moving her face between the the thick, curved tusks and kissing him on the lips.

"Ya be up early," he observed. Murdok watched her closely, and though she tried to hide it, she couldn't hold his gaze for long, "Dat dream again?"

"Yah," Shalar'zahn said shortly, "I t'ink mebbe when Edgah' comes, we should be talkin' 'bout goin' on dat trip."

She smoothed a hand over Tegan's small head, her expression contorted with concern, and Murdok grimaced. He wished for all the world they'd found a baby that didn't have some sort of ominous prophecy connected to it. It was fitting, he supposed, that such a child had brought them together. The gods saw fit to put them through such trails, and so he couldn't complain too much, but he'd be damned if he didn't balk a little.

"He be in no state tah travel," Murdok frowned, bouncing Tegan to keep her amused while they talked, "Yah know he ain't. Dat one be danglin' on de end o' his rope."

"Mebbe dis be just what he needs," Shalar'zahn protested, "Only make t'ings worse fo' him, if we don' invite him."

Murdok grunted, unconvinced. He knew loose cannons when he saw them. Even the most mild mannered person could go berserk at the wrong time if they were broken enough. And Edgar was most definitely a broken man. He kept constant company with a Death Knight, for example. What sane person did _that?_

"We gonna make a t'ing o'dis?" he asked, "Invite Igor n' Ivan and 'Kenzie?"

"Mebbe," Shalar'zahn frowned. Her expression grew distant and he scowled at her. She was keeping something from him. The fiery haired trolless was a shadow hunter, and so there were parts of her that would always be secret to him, but her expression suggested this was something more earthly.

"Wha'?" he asked, tightening his grip on her hip. She snapped a harsh look at him and put a hand on his chest, though it wasn't to push him away. Her yellow eyes searched his for a moment, brow furrowed, the corners of her lips curling a frown around her dainty tusks. Murdok was no mystic, but he was a cunning, canny troll, and she must've realized she couldn't keep whatever she was keeping from him forever.

"I di'in tell yah de whole dream," she finally admitted, shifting her eyes to Tegan a moment, tickling under the girl's chin, "Di'in wan' tah until I be knowin' wha' it meant."

Murdok scowled, hardly noticing Tegan grasping his tusk. Normally he pretended that she was so strong, the action wrenched his head, but his head was involved in other matters. She still didn't entirely trust him. Didn't entirely trust what they had.

"Yah said you di'in t'ink dat dream was prophecy," he said, battling with the urge to start shouting. It was his own fault, that she no longer fully trusted him, but _still_... hadn't he proved himself over these past few months?

"No' at firs'," Shalar'zahn nodded. Her expression was unapologetic and hard – she had never been the type to be embarrassed by her actions. She had done what she thought was necessary.

"Gonna share?" Murdok couldn't help but snap. Shalar'zahn's jaw tightened and she gently took Tegan back, nodding at him.

"Gonna feed dis one firs'," she said, "Den we talk."

She waded out of the shallows then, and though the rear view of her glorious body was something to behold, his mind was very far from that just now. He swore when she was out of sight and slapped impotently at the water, raking both hands through his hair with a growl afterwards. What more could he do to prove he hand changed? That he regretted his terrible words to her?

As a scout and an assassin, sometimes he found it difficult to reconcile the fact that his personal life couldn't be resolved with simple, careful planning. There was no timetable for wounds of the heart, and he had struck at hers deeply. He ought to be grateful that she included him in her life at all. Sometimes he still felt as though he had only been speaking naturally. He was a male, a_ troll_, damn it, and he _ought_ to be concerned with his legacy. The Darkspear were not a primitive people. They were cunning, more so than their jungle and forest brethren, and had adopted more modern ideals. Just because Tegan was not his get did not make him less of a man.

His father would not have agreed with that thought, were he alive, and he imagined his mother would have the same thing to say. They had been old fashioned, as most elder trolls were these days, feeling as though they were losing their connection to the spirits bit by bit as they adopted more orcish ways. Vol'jin was an exception to the rule – he was wise enough to see that while the unchanging, rigid troll empires crumbled, the rugged, adaptable orcish hordes thrived and prospered. The powerful shadow hunter embraced the new ideas as the savior of their once dwindling tribe.

Shalar'zahn accepted the new ways, and her connection to the Loa spirits was very strong. Murdok envied her a great deal for it, and wondered if some of her distrust was sourced in his own rigid mindset.

He sighed and made to follow her, pausing to grab the kilt he had discarded on his way in. Glancing upwards, he noted the normally clear blue sky was crowded with dark clouds – it would likely rain. Hopefully Edgar wouldn't get caught in the downpour.

Tegan was eating some cut up fruit when he came inside, very intent on her task, glancing at him with her big blue eyes. A smile twitched around his tusks in spite of himself. Blue eyes weren't very common amongst jungle trolls – she was going to get a lot of attention when she was older.

"Tch," Shalar'zahn snorted from the archway of their bedroom, "Ya still not dressed?"

Murdok couldn't help but smirk at her and moved towards the bedroom, looking down at her as he walked past with raised brows. She was one to talk. He would've just pulled the kilt back on, but they were having company today, so he tossed it on the bed and pulled on some pants instead, grabbing a tunic as well. Even Shalar'zahn scoffed at his preference for orc fashion over the less restrictive ideals trolls held, but it was progress of a sort, right?

He joined her in the common room, coming up behind her and crouching to rest his head on her shoulder. One of her arms came up automatically, resting a hand in his wild blue hair, and she sighed.

"Most'a wha' I tol' yah is de same," Shalar'zahn began, watching Tegan as she spoke, "Silit'us. Nort'rend. Us t'ree surrounded by uddah trolls, wantin' tah kill us. But den... dat woman, Yvette, she is dere too. An' Edgah."

Murdok frowned and looked sideways at her, but the angle he was at made it impossible to look at her face. Why would she hide something like that?

"Dey help chase dem trolls off, but den... den yah ask fo' Tegan an... an' dat Yvette, when I hand Tegan ovah, she..." Shalar'zahn's voice wavered and she tightened her fingers in his hair, making him wince, "She run yah t'rough! Ends de same every time, Murdok, an' I don' know what ta t'ink o'dat!"

"Jes won' bring her den," Murdok scowled. A cold shiver ran up his spine. Shalar'zahn could very well be dreaming about future events. It happened to shadow hunters as they became more in tune with the spirits. The past, present and future started to blur together. How much of her dream was blurring, though? How much of it was dream, and how much of it was prophecy?

"Yah don' undahstand," Shalar'zahn said tightly, "We have tah. She be a part o'dis. She felt de Ol' Gods, Murdok."

Murdok's scowl deepened. He _didn't_ understand.

"It migh' only be o'symbol o'somet'in'," the shadow hunter said wearily, rubbing her cheek against his with a shivery sigh, "It not be a very strong vision. It be murky. Got holes innit. Mebbe de spirits tryin' tah tell me somet'in' an' my mind be too clouded tah get de whole message."

"So you t'ink we should bring de Death Knight if Edgah insists? Even though she might want tah _kill_ me?" Murdok clarified.

Shalar'zahn turned and embraced Murdok tightly and he wrapped his arms around her, unsure of just what he was supposed to think. Now he understood, at least, why she hadn't shared the entire dream.

"Can't lose yah again," she whispered, "But if we say no tah Yvette comin', Edgah..."

"Just de t'ree of us go, den!" Murdok protested, though he kept a gentle hold on her, "Nevahmin' de deaders."

"I pray on it tonigh'," she said quietly, shaking her head, "I beseech de Spirits. Den' we decide."

He looked upwards as he heard rain start to patter on the roof of the hut, thinking that the rumbling thunder was rather fitting for the current mood. His eyes moved to the baby troll, startled to find that she was watching the two of them far more intently than any baby ought.

Or maybe he imagined it. She went back to mangling her fruit, babbling to herself, and he felt another cold chill skitter up his spine.

* * *

Edgar thought it was just his luck that it would be pouring down rain when he finally decided to visit, and he pulled his hood up around his face tighter, urging his skeletal horse to go a bit faster. He hadn't had enough to spring for one of the much higher quality warhorses, having to settle instead for the far more rickety civilian versions.

It was better than walking, at least, and it wasn't as though he could afford the upkeep on a warhorse anyway. The more advanced enchantments on the dire steeds required more delicate (and _expensive_) maintenance.

Razor Hill was all but shut up as he rode through it, only its guards visible as they huddled under pavilions, watching Edgar with undisguised suspicion. Forsaken had little reason to venture out into the wilder, more civilian areas of Durotar, and Edgar imagined he made a rather poor impression with his bedraggled, muddy appearance.

He raised a hand in greeting anyway and they did not return it, though one of them at least nodded. The other gestured him over, and though he was surprised, Edgar steered his mount over to their pavilion with a curious expression.

"What's your business here?" the orc growled at him in his own tongue.

"I'm visiting friends in Sen'jin," he said, jumping as a flash of lighting lanced the sky, followed by a sharp crack of thunder.

"Murdok and Shalar'zahn," he added, certain neither name would be recognized. They were only looking after their lands, he knew, but it was disappointing to be regarded as some sort of treacherous monster.

The guards exchanged looks.

"Why?" the guard who had nodded asked, narrowing his eyes. His companion straightened his posture some, and Edgar noted that his hand had started to drift to the haft of his axe.

"They're friends of mine," Edgar frowned, tightening his grip on the horses reins, "I visit them and their daughter every month. Is that a crime all of the sudden?"

"They already have visitors on the way," the first orc said, "A group of trolls. Why weren't you with them, if you're all family friends?"

Edgar felt an unpleasant twist in his chest, "A group of trolls? How many? How long ago did they come through?"

"Three, maybe an hour ago, maybe less," the second orc said, his meaty hand now resting on the haft of his weapon, "You seem alarmed, Forsaken."

"What did they say when they came through? Did they only say they were family friends?"

"They said they were from the Zandalar Isles," the less aggressive orc said, "And they wanted directions to Sen'jin."

"_Directions?_" Edgar repeated, the twist turning into more of a terrible squeeze. How could he explain to the guards, though, without wasting anymore time? They had an hour lead on him and all he had to catch up was this run down, second-hand horse! He didn't know why he felt so much dread, but neither Murdok or Shalar'zahn had ever mentioned having living family, let alone a lot of family friends.

"What's spooked you, dead man?" the more aggravated orc asked with a snarl.

"Were they mounted?" Edgar asked, ignoring his question for now. _One _of these orcs was reasonable, and so he'd not bother with the other.

"No," the orc frowned, glancing at his companion and making a placating gesture with one hand, "What's going on?"

"I think you just gave assassins directions to their house," Edgar said, voice tight. He turned the horse sharply – he tried, anyway. It shambled awkwardly in the direction he had commanded, "Send word to Vol'jin. He'll know their names."

"What-!"

"I have to go!" Edgar exclaimed, urging the skeletal creature onwards. He heard protests behind him but ignored them, hoping that the two of them didn't have worgs on hand to run him down and drag him back to Orgrimmar for questioning. There wasn't time for that. If they were on foot, he had some hope of reaching them before...

It was impossible to tell time. Though it had been late afternoon when the storm had come in, the unnatural darkness the weather had brought had muddled his sense of time completely. Yvette would have known what time it was. She also had one of the coveted warhorses in her possession, having found that showing up to certain events on a steed that loathed all things warm and living was a poor idea.

The thought that he should have insisted Yvette come along with him plagued him, but even he realized it was useless to dwell on such a thought. Yvette did nothing she didn't want too, and no amount of cajoling would have changed her mind. At least, on her insistence, he now traveled everywhere armed. And he'd made certain his weapon's harnessing was very secure. No more losing his sword while he was unconscious, at least not to something as simple as the elements.

Edgar had always subscribed to Anne's belief that there was no destiny, no luck. You made both yourself, and though they were quaint ideas, reality too often proved them to be false concepts. Even so, what were the chances that him missing the zeppelin in the morning had put him in a position to, possibly, save the trolls from an unexpected ambush?

_Or find them slaughtered_, he thought grimly, uselessly wiping rain away from his face. It was a torrential downpour, and he hoped his horse didn't snap its legs on a pothole in the road. There was no way he could see through the heavy sheets of rain and avoid such a thing. It would be good for crops – it so very rarely even drizzled in Durotar – but right now, it was just as much an enemy as the trolls that had moved through Razor Hill.

Maybe he would arrive and find that they actually were old friends. He hoped it was true.

That he was able to hope at all anymore was something of a mystery to him, but he'd take it.

He rode hard, urging the skeletal horse on well past its limits, gritting his teeth in frustration. Had he passed Sen'jin? The torches that normally burned brightly would be doused by the heavy rains. Almost in answer, a bolt of lighting streaked across the sky, illuminating everything for the briefest moment. The village was silhouetted on the horizon – he was much closer than he thought. Shalar'zahn's home was out on the Echo Isles, however. Would the ferry even be running in this weather?

Edgar rode past the village and towards the ferry. He'd seen no sign of trolls the guards had mentioned. Even though they were on foot, they'd obviously made very good time. The Forsaken had been certain he'd have caught up to them by now, even on his less than stellar mount.

He came to an abrupt halt at the ferry, nearly falling off of the horse in his urgency, and paused when the lightning revealed the slumped form of the ferryman, his neck at an unnatural angle, eyes staring up into the rain.

"Shit!" Edgar cursed hoarsely, noting that the ferry was missing too. He was too late. Damn it, he was too late _again_.

Damn it, _no!_

The Forsaken grimly pulled off his boots and put them in his saddlebag, securing his satchel to his horse before tying it to one of the posts on the ferry dock. It wasn't a far swim to the Echo Isles, and it wasn't as though he was easy to drown. He wasn't giving up just yet.

Edgar dove into the churning water off of the dock and let himself sink some before he started to swim forward, his luminous eyes doing hardly anything to cut through the murk. He didn't have much natural buoyancy, but it worked somewhat to his advantage, allowing him to swim closer to the bottom and somewhat removed from the storm-roiled surface.

Every second seemed to weigh heavily on him, and though he was thoroughly exhausted by the time he dragged himself up on what he hoped was Shalar'zahn's corner of the Echo Isles, he only took a moment to gather himself, hacking up any excess water that had seeped into his withered lungs.

_Now what?_ Edgar wondered to himself. He couldn't see a damned thing, and though the lightning had been flashing with some regularity, now of course, it seemed to be taking a break. Trying to use his ears instead, he gasped when he felt strong hands reach out and grasp his head, deadly intent quite clear. He jabbed backwards with a sharp elbow, causing his attacker to grunt in surprise, and Edgar sprang away from the thick-fingered troll hands.

In front of him was a massive troll, so thickly muscled that he knew it couldn't have possibly been from the Darkspear tribe. The Gurubashi or Armani could easily have been candidates, but as things stood, Edgar could only assume they were Drakkari.

Lighting flashed again and the troll reached for him as it recovered from its surprise, but Edgar had a sword between them now, watching it warily. An ugly snarl curled the creatures lips and it drew a dagger that glowed with a fel turquoise light. The glow seemed to _drip_ from the dagger, the effect disturbing and distracting, but when it suddenly jabbed towards him Edgar came back to himself, parrying and giving ground. Where were the other trolls??

His troll attacker did not give him much time to think, driving him backwards with powerful thrusts that threatened to go straight through him if they landed. Edgar let himself give ground, desperate to hear or see any sort of clue as to where the other trolls were. Had he arrived just as they had launched their attack? Just after? Was he too late?

Familiar crying reached his ears between exchanging blows with the ice troll and he was certain his heart, which hadn't had much to do for quite a long time, might just burst from despair. Why were they after Tegan!? Were they going to kill her!?

"What are you doing?" Edgar demanded, shouting over the storm, wondering just how much ground he'd given. He wanted to flick a look behind him, to make sure he wasn't being boxed in by more trolls, but he didn't dare look away.

When the lightning next split the sky, Edgar noted with some discomfort that the troll was not at all intently focused on him. It was as though he were only half paying attention, letting someone or some_thing_ else direct his vicious thrusts.

"Shur'nab Yog-Sarron!" the troll cackled at him gleefully, striking out with a fist after Edgar brought his sword up high to block a vicious downwards stab. The fist struck Edgar in the side and sent him sprawling, and the Forsaken struggled to right his footing in the damp sand.

Edgar didn't know what to make the gibberish – it didn't sound zandalari at all – and rolled away from a heavy foot as it came down to pin him to the ground. On his hands and feet, he grunted as that same foot connected with his face, sending him reeling onto his back, seeing stars.

His eyes fixed on the glowing dagger, the blade seemingly unconcerned with how dark it was as it shone starkly, reflecting off the trolls mad eyes and another blade-

_What!?_

The next moment, the ice troll's throat was slit and it slumped to the ground, and a much friendlier hand was offering him a hand up.

"Murdok-!" Edgar exclaimed, but the troll only shook his head grimly, bending to make sure the other troll was dead. Lowering his voice – he could still hear the crying – he gestured urgently inland, "What about Tegan?"

"She be safe, mon," Murdok growled, kicking the troll's body over and grasping him under the arms, obviously intending to drag him along, "Was lookin' fo' dis one. Nearly gut me."

Edgar squinted, but any evidence of blood had been washed away by the heavy rain. Or at least, it _had_ been heavy rain. Was the storm blowing itself out already?

Had it even been a natural storm?

The Forsaken walked alongside Murdok, not daring to offer help to the glowering troll, and felt great relief wash over him when he saw Shalar'zahn in the doorway of her hut, holding a very unhappy Tegan. She was doing all she could to comfort the baby, but it seemed to be of no use.

"Murdok!" she exclaimed when she saw him, blinking and adding, "Edgah?"

Edgar offered her a lame wave.

"He found dis one fo' me," Murdok said with grim humor, laying the body out alongside two others. The light spilling from the hut revealed them to be dressed in black robes trimmed with silver and purple, all of them heavily built ice trolls.

"Yah come in an' sit down," Shalar'zahn fretted from the doorway, gesturing to the two of them.

"No' yet," Murdok scowled, crouching down in front of the three bodies and searching them. His face was taut with pain, and standing behind the Darkspear troll, Edgar could plaining see two stab wounds in his back. They'd obviously been well aimed, but near-dodged, and Murdok was content to let his natural troll healing take care of the problem. Walking around and stretching the wounds, however, couldn't be aiding the process, and dark red blood continued to seep from the wounds.

Shalar'zahn huffed and gestured to Edgar, who hurried over and took Tegan from her, offering her a thin smile as she wailed and clung to him. She blinked her eyes open at the jostling and sniffled, surprised to see who was holding her.

"Egger," she said in a small voice, hugging his neck.

"I'm here, sweetheart," he soothed gently, rubbing her back as he watched Shalar'zahn stalk over to Murdok.

"Yah stabbed," she snapped at him, "Siddown a bit!"

"Bah!" Murdok growled at her, showing his teeth in irritation, "Dese trolls come inta our house n'stab at me, try t'take th'baby, an all yah can t'ink of is bein' _stabbed_. I been stabbed_ plenty_, woman!"

Shalar'zahn glared and grabbed one of his long ears, making him squawk and cringe, leaning into her grip in an attempt to alleviate the pressure.

"Go siddown! Shalar'zahn will look!" she said fiercely.

Murdok obeyed sullenly, but he only went as far as the steps of their hut to sit, attempting to share a commiserating look with Edgar. Edgar could only shrug at Murdok. The trolless had a point – they were both capable of checking the bodies of their attackers.

She rifled through their robes with an intense frown, irritably brushing her soaked dreadlocks out of her face. After a few more infractions she snarled and kept one hand wrapped around the unruly hair.

It was the first body she searched that produced a result – an amulet with a hammer pendant, the hammer surrounded what Edgar supposed was a toothy maw of some sort. The chain itself looked to be made of silver, but the pendant was made of a strange turquoise stone. Not unlike the dagger Edgar had seen earlier, it pulsed and dripped with an unhealthy glow. Just_ looking _at it made him uncomfortable.

Shalar'zahn jerked the chain from the troll's neck and dangled it in front of her face, obviously just as uneasy as Edgar.

"I know dat symbol," Murdok said, "Dat be de symbol o' th' Twilight Hammer."

"I thought they were destroyed during the siege of the scarab wall," Edgar frowned, "Why would a destroyed cult want to kidnap a baby?"

"Mebbe they no' be destroyed," Shalar'zahn said darkly

"The one... the one I 'found' was speaking in gibberish," Edgar offered, hoping very much that it didn't end up being zandalari. The last thing he wanted to do was insult Murdok and Shalar'zahn so soon after a traumatic event.

"Wot yah hear, mon?" Murdok asked.

"Sure-nab-yogs-arron?" Edgar recalled, phrasing it into a question unintentionally, "He looked insane, like he wasn't even really in control of what he was doing. It was different, though. I don't think he _cared_."

"Gibb'rish," Shalar'zahn agreed, dropping the pendant with great disdain, "Dunno wot dese pendants made outta either, but I feelin like mebbe we should bury em."

"Should at least keep one, and see if someone can't tell us more about it," Edgar interjected, wincing at the look the trolless shot him.

"Dey mug yah, Edgah?" Murdok asked, raising his eyebrows as he noticed that Edgar wasn't even wearing shoes.

Edgar blinked a moment and managed a laugh, shaking his head.

"No, I... I'm sure we'll have more company before long. Some orcs in Razor Hill stopped me and told me that you had guests on the way. I told them to alert Vol'jin," he said, feeling a bit uncomfortable with two keen yellow eyes peering at him, "He's one of the few people you mentioned knew that Tegan was... different."

"Yah mon," Murdok frowned, "Don' explain wot happen tah yah shoes."

"I left my things at the ferry, on my horse," Edgar said, "Figured shoes wouldn't help me swim."

"Yah _swam_ heyah?" Shalar'zahn said, eyes widening. Edgar shrugged, sheepish, and nodded.

"They killed the ferryman, so I figured it was urgent," he said.

The two trolls shared a look and Shalar'zahn rose, gesturing for Edgar to hand Tegan back. He agreed, glad that she had stopped crying, and shoved his hands in his very damp pockets.

As the storm clouds dissipated, it became clear that it was nearing evening, and Murdok stood with a wince.

"He be heyah soon," the male troll supposed, ignoring Shalar'zahn's indignant snort that he'd broken open the wound again, "Should get anudda shirt."

"Gonna do yah no good if yah keep bleedin t'rough it," the female troll growled at him.

"I should go get my things," Edgar said awkwardly, "Maybe I'll meet them on their way over."

Shalar'zahn nodded absently, more focused on Murdok than the Forsaken man, and he slouched away from the hut, sidestepped the prone troll bodies uneasily. His swim back was much easier, the surface of the water having calmed considerably, and he was relieved to see his horse still milling about near the dock.

He'd only just pulled his shoes back on with a loud squelch when he heart the pounding of heavy feet against the red earth, recognizing them as raptors before he actually laid eyes on them. There were three (did trolls travel in three's on purpose, or was it a coincidence?), the one in front very obviously Vol'jin even from a distance. The shadow hunter's outlandish red mohawk was impossible to misplace, and coupled with his wild adornments and his heavily armed escorts, it could have been no one else.

The troll leader brought his raptor up short, taking in the scene with his shrewd gaze. Edgar suddenly realized how bad he looked right now, sopping wet, standing only a few feet from a dead Darkspear troll, and his eyes widened.

Vol'jin held up a hand, flicking a look at his honor guard behind he dismounted his raptor easily, giving the creature a rough slap on the flank before ambling casually over to Edgar. As trolls went, Vol'jin was not much larger than average, but he was still intimidating. He had a _presence_ to him, an air of deadly confidence.

"Edgar Jerrik," the troll addressed. Vol'jin spoke common much more clearly than most trolls, something for which Edgar was silently grateful. His orcish was rusty, in any case, and he only knew a few words in zandalari – he was grateful that the troll leader was favoring him by speaking a language he didn't particularly care for.

Surprised that such an important man recognized him even in his bedraggled state, Edgar nodded, quickly adding, "I can explain, sir-"

He held up a hand again and bent to inspect the slain ferryman with a scowl, finally gesturing to his guards to dismount. They did so silently, taking up the trolls body without so much as a verbal order and carrying it towards the village. When they were alone Vol'jin stood and Edgar cleared his throat nervously.

"After the baby drakkari?" Vol'jin asked. He seemed less than concerned about Edgar's involvement with the ferryman.

"Yes," Edgar said, attempting not to seem so caught off guard, "Three ice trolls, speaking gibberish. They... well, the one I fought looked mad, and he was speaking in gibberish. Shalar'zahn found a pendant of the Twilight Hammer on one of them."

Vol'jin's scowl was dark, showing the deep lines in his face clearly, and he looked out at the Echo Isles. The shadow hunter straightened to his full height a moment, something that always took Edgar by surprise, and he followed the troll's gaze – Shalar'zahn was returning the ferry to the dock.

They waited in silence as she approached, the female troll bowing in deference as the ferry bumped up against the dock.

"Spirits find you well, child," Vol'jin said warmly, beckoning her to stand again. She rose obediently, not hiding her grim expression.

"An' you, Mastah," she responded.

"Show me the trolls that attacked," he said, gesturing towards the Echo Isles. She nodded and stepped back in the ferry, the flimsy craft bobbing as Vol'jin and Edgar boarded. Shalar'zahn did not need to paddle it back, however, the craft seeming to take on a life of its own and motoring its way back. Though he made no fanfare of it, Edgar imagined it was the elder shadow hunter's doing. Magic came as easily to him as breathing, Shalar'zahn had told him once, her voice filled with great reverence.

Their ferry ride was in complete silence, and Edgar couldn't help but feel uneasy. He felt like a complete outsider amongst these trolls. Shalar'zahn and Murdok welcomed him kindly enough, but he still felt as though he couldn't even begin to understand the savage, passionate creatures.

Vol'jin hopped off of the craft before it reached the shore, obviously not so important as to avoid getting his bare feet wet. The trolless sprang off after him, and Edgar found himself hastily staking the ferry to the shore before he hurried up behind them. The troll leader had not dismissed him, but he seemed to have little concern for his presence either way. Edgar decided not to dwell on it, recalling that most beings of great importance tended to have an innate ability to completely ignore things of no consequence to them. The Dark Lady's Majordomo came to mind, though he'd never make such a comparison out loud.

"Murdok be inside," Shalar'zahn explained when they came upon her hut, gesturing to the prone corpses, "Dey stabbed him an' I tol' him tah wait til' de wounds seal up bettah 'fore he goes runnin' about."

Vol'jin nodded and crouched, the many bones, beads and carvings weaved into his official vestments clacking together noisily as he did so.

"Drakkari," he said with a frown, "They be against the Scourge. Against_ everyone_."

"They be wearin' dese," Shalar'zahn said, deigning to pick up the foul jewelery so her leader did not have too. She dangled it by the chain and Vol'jin narrowed his eyes, taking it from her.

"The Twilight Hammer don't use teeth," he said darkly.

"Teeth?" Shalar'zahn blinked, squinting at the pendant. He pointed, though with such thick fingers, it didn't really help much, "I was t'inkin' those jes' be markings."

"Teeth," Vol'jin insisted, letting the pendant drop, "Jerrik. What gibberish did they say to you?"

"Only one thing," Edgar said, swallowing as hard eyes fixed on him, "Sure-nab-yogs-arron."

The ferocious trolls already grim countenance seemed to deepen, and if it weren't for his casual posture, Edgar could've sworn it seemed_ fearful_.

"Sure about that, Jerrik?" Vol'jin said, a dangerous edge in his tone. Shalar'zahn sensed it too and shot Edgar a searching look, obviously trying to understand what had put the calm, collected troll on edge. The Forsaken wished he knew.

"Completely," he said, "I... I won't swear that's exactly it, but it's all the right syllables."

Vol'jin stood and moved to walk inside, and Shalar'zahn shot Edgar a wide eyed look. He only shrugged helplessly at her and shook his head – he had no idea!

"Mastah," Murdok said respectfully from where he was sitting, bowing his head. Tegan was in his lap, playing with a plush dragon Edgar had gotten her, her play largely involving chewing on it. She looked at Vol'jin with great curiosity, having already forgotten whatever trauma she'd suffered not long ago.

"Glad you're still with us," Vol'jin said, crouched in front of Murdok and tickling a finger at Tegan. She giggled and buried her head shyly into Murdok's chest, "They tried to take her?"

"Yah," Murdok nodded, "We were talkin' 'bout what t' have fo' dinnah. T'ought I heard somet'in outside an' went tah check. One grabbed me an th' othah tried tah gut me twice. Snapped a neck o' one, the othah ran off, but I heard screamin' inside. Shalar'zahn took care o'the'one tryin' t'take Tegan."

"So they only sent three," Vol'jin frowned. Edgar supposed that could be taken any number of ways, but he hoped in part it had to do with the Twilight Hammer knowing very, very little about Shalar'zahn and Murdok. It was a good sign. He hoped.

"Got dee drop on us," Murdok scowled, "Woulda been more keen if Edgah hadn't been 'sposed to visit."

"So you'll be traveling to Silithus first, yah?" Vol'jin said.

Murdok and Shalar'zahn exchanged a look ad Edgar wondered if it were possible for him to become anymore invisible than he was just now. Perhaps it was better this way, to not have Yvette with him – though Vol'jin didn't find _him_ offensive, he might've suspected the Death Knight's involvement somehow. She often seemed to be first in everyone's mind to blame things on.

"Priestess Shai was de first I'd t'ink tah ask," Shalar'zahn nodded, "Is it... does it make sense, Mastah, dat de Twilight Hammer be active?"

"No," Vol'jin said, "They've been quiet since C'thun was destroyed."

"_Too_ quiet?" Edgar attempted to offer. Three yellow eyes set on him this time and it took all he could not to flinch under their scrutiny.

"They were _supposed_ to have been destroyed," Vol'jin said, "Every corner of Azeroth has been purged of their cult."

"Not every corner," the Forsaken protested. Vol'jin was quiet only a moment, nodding when he understood. Edgar swallowed hard – the idea of returning to Northrend wasn't one he savored. Their settlements were rudimentary at best. Not even the Horde's finest, most powerful forces had made much headway on the roof of the world. It was slow going, and with all the trade confusion Yvette had been telling him about... it would be quite awhile before they were properly established.

"Speak to Shai," the shadow hunter said, "Northrend will be the last place you look. Seems like a poor idea, returning her to where she was found."

"Yah," Shalar'zahn agreed, hugging herself to diffuse her unease. It had been easy to play house for a few months, but ultimately, she had to of seen this coming. Tegan's mystery had to be solved sooner than later.

"Best keep it amongst yourselves," Vol'jin added, "No telling who you can trust."

Edgar's thoughts strayed immediately to Yvette. She would have to come along. He couldn't even imagine _not_ having her along. Despite her innate menace, the Death Knight was an invaluable ally. Having someone along who didn't have to sleep would also be of great use, amongst... other things. The others hadn't witnessed Yvette's true and terrible power, but she had faced off personally with what wanted Tegan. If she could fight off the influence of a slumbering Old God through sheer malignant spite, surely she'd be able to fend off half-mad cultists?

She might appreciate a reprieve from her more administrative duties, in any case.

"T'ank yah fo' seein' tah dis personally," Shalar'zahn said. Vol'jin offered her a warm smile and laid a hand on her shoulder a moment, nodding at her.

He left without another word, which Edgar thought peculiar, but neither troll seemed to share his confusion.

"Silit'us be a long way from heyah," Murdok observed grimly, bouncing the wriggly child on his knee to keep her distracted.

"Not t'much hostile territory 'tween here n'dere," Shalar'zahn said, "Not since we was young, eh?"

Murdok looked unconvinced. Edgar was inclined to silently agree. If cultists were after them, somehow able to find Tegan with only vague directions, it was doubtful they would be safe for a moment.

"When do you want to leave?" the Forsaken asked, presumptuously inviting himself along, "Tomorrow?"

"Few days time," Murdok said, "Have tah take a leave o'absence. Sort things. Supplies."

Edgar nodded, noting that neither troll was looking at him now, as though they were trying to avoid encouraging to speak. Not understanding, he frowned some, wondering what he'd done to offend them.

"That will be enough time to sort my affairs as well," he said, "I can talk to Yvette, as well. I'm sure she'll-"

"She be pretty busy wit' her new job, eh?" Murdok cut in. With Murdok in front of him, Edgar couldn't see Shalar'zahn's expression, and he wondered what he was missing.

"Yes," Edgar said slowly, "But this is a situation she was very involved in. I think she'd like to get to the bottom of it just as much as any of us."

Murdok's expression remained dour and he rose with a flinch, reaching around to gingerly feel his stab wounds. When his fingers came back dry of blood he showed them to Shalar'zahn before passing Tegan to Edgar.

"Mon, yah sure yah can trust her?" the troll asked him. It was such a blunt question that Edgar blinked rapidly, glancing down at Tegan as she mashed the dragon toy into his face eagerly.

"Of course I am," he said, "I trust Yvette with my life."

"Shore 'bout dat?" the rogue needled, his eyes boring into the Forsaken as though he might learn more through looking than through asking.

"I understand she's off putting but she keeps to herself," Edgar scowled, "I'm sure she'd ride a ways behind or in front if she makes you that uncomfortable, but even Tegan doesn't mind her, and I can't think of a bigger endorsement."

"Mebbe she be movin' on tah t'ings more suitin' her," Murdok said, pressing closer to the Forsaken. Edgar angled his jaw up at the troll, refusing to be intimidated, unsure of why he was being subjected to this sort of posturing. They had never really become friends over the past six months, but he'd thought they were at _least_ civil acquaintances.

Shalar'zahn intervened then, grabbing one of Murdok's curving tusks and rather roughly forcing him back a step, glaring at him.

"Don' mind him," she said, not taking her eyes off the male troll, "He's jes-"

"Dem trolls in yo' dream," Murdok growled at her, interrupting, "De ones ou'side de same?"

There was a thick silence, and then, from Shalar'zahn, "Yes."

"It already comin' true den," he said pointedly. Edgar realized what he saw in the troll's eyes now – _fear_. He didn't think trolls were much afraid of anything and it made him uneasy, thoughts interrupted by a plush dragon to the eye. Edgar grunted and gently pulled it away from his face, offering Tegan an indulgent smile.

"Lovely dragon, sweetheart," he murmured to her, shifting his eyes back to the trolls. What did Murdok mean, something was already coming true?

"I don' like it either!" Shalar'zahn protested after another long silence, "We got no choice, and Edgah's right – she got a stake in dis, same as we do."

"I ain't goin'," the male troll scowled, wrenching her hand off of his tusk and turning his back to her. The area around his stabs were an angry purple, but they'd sealed shut after he'd kept still.

"You gotta!" she protested, "Murdok, I don' wan' nothin' t'happen t'yah but if de Spirits-"

"Hell wit' dem!" he spat, making her eyes widen. She even backed up a step, "I don' want t'die! Not like dat!"

"What is he talking about?" Edgar asked, reluctant to remind them that he was still in the room.

Both trolls looked at him and Murdok turned away again while Shalar'zahn fretted, attempting to lay a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off and she pursed her lips.

"I been havin' a dream. A vision, mebbe, an' in it... yah friend, dat Death Knight, she be killin' Murdok," she said. Edgar had the feeling he'd just heard the abridged version, but he didn't protest, frowning instead.

"Yvette wouldn't kill anyone without _some _reason," he said, wishing he could say something more reassuring. She'd very nearly killed him a few times, and that wasn't counting their travels in Northrend.

"She be a Death Knight, mon," Murdok said harshly, "Breathin' be just as good o'reason as any!"

"She's not like that," Edgar insisted "Are you sure this... that your vision is literal Shalar'zahn?"

"Yah," she said, adding, "But it not be complete. It be... hazy. I not been able tah see all o'it."

"You're _sure_ she kills him?"

"She runs him t'rough wit' dat big stickah o'hers," Shalar'zahn, "Dat be enough t'kill anyone."

Edgar was inclined to agree, and wasn't sure how they were going to get around this issue. He wasn't a good liar – he couldn't just tell Yvette he was going to take a vacation for a little while and she suddenly wasn't invited. She'd know he was up to something, drag it out of him, and then he'd have to admit they were finally investigating Tegan's origins and that she wasn't allowed along because Shalar'zahn had dreamed she would stab Murdok.

It sounded a bit hokey to him, all things considered, but both trolls were taking it _very_ seriously.

"If you tell her about your... _vision_, maybe it will change it," Edgar attempted, shifting his grip on Tegan. She was growing up fast and was considerably heavier than when he'd first picked her up all those months ago.

"Me an' her are gonna have a long talk if yah gonna bring her," Murdok growled. While Edgar could identify with the idea of being uneasy, being so worked up over a dream seemed a touch silly. Fair enough, Shalar'zahn communed with her peoples Loa spirits, but even she was insisting what she'd seen was incomplete.

"I'll talk to her too," Edgar insisted, "I know she isn't easy to get along with," Murdok snorted loudly but Edgar ignored him, "But Yvette would be an invaluable addition to this... expedition. I'm sure Shalar'zahn's vision is just... look, some of it has come true, and I believe you saw what you saw, but it was still just a dream. You said yourself you feel like you're not getting the whole story."

Murdok glared at the Forsaken, and Edgar wondered how the male troll could pal around with a complete asshole like Ivan and still find Edgar worthy of nasty glares. It made little sense to him.

"Mebbe yah cut yah visit short an' go talk tah her," Shalar'zahn said, moving close and stroking the back of Tegan's head, "If we travelin' tagethah anyway, might as well get thin's goin'."

Edgar nodded, "I agree. I'll speak with Yvette. And send word to the Forlon's, if you like."

Maybe after a few days, Murdok would be more reasonable. He sighed and kissed Tegan gingerly on the forehead, smiling at her and handing her back over to Shalar'zahn. The trolless nodded at his suggestion to notify the Forlon's. The gang was getting back together, it seemed.

"I'll see you soon, sweetheart," he said, tickling Tegan's feet gently and making her giggle, "Be good."

"Egger!" she said proudly. Tegan was quite pleased with her words.

"Travel safe, mon," Shalar'zahn said. She smiled warmly at him, looking down and waving, trying to encourage Tegan to mimick her. When she managed to flail her hands at him enthusiastically, he returned the wave and left, noting with some surprise that the ferry was still present. How had Vol'jin gotten back without it?

He looked around and shook his head, deciding it was probably better that he didn't think about it.


End file.
